


Chasing Pretty Thoughts

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Contracts, Crossdressing, Did Not Archive Warning Due to Just Implications, Dom!Shiro, Escort Service, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone is over legal age, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light BDSM, M/M, Man Wearing Make up, Past Relationships, Possible Implication of PTSD, Prostitution, Shance secret santa, Shancemas, Teacher-Student Relationship, sub!Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8982265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: Lance ran away from home years ago to make it out on his own and be capable of sending his widowed mother and family funds, but found himself becoming a prostitute due to the ease of getting money off of dumb men for a quick job. After years of working up to it, he’s managed to become a fairly sought after escort amongst the city elite.Then he meets Takashi Shirogane at a charity ball, and it goes downhill from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nohrrin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nohrrin).



> This is for my Shance Secret Santa partner, nohrrin on Tumblr! I have spent a literal month working on this monstrosity, and hope that it shows I at least worked a little hard on it. I'm debating on referencing everything I have in my 'SHANCEMAS' folder for Shiro and Lance as far as attire, but I feel that it may be excessive. If anyone wants, I can definitely provide. 
> 
> Please enjoy, and Happy Holidays and Merry Shancemas!
> 
> Edit: 12/29 - Guess who just noticed that all of my formatting did not transfer over? Oops.

Maybe it’s a mixture of destiny and pure _dumb luck_ that Lance meets Takashi Shirogane on the same night an old bastard with too much money to blow on _young blood_ on the night he’s been hired for. 

 

Hell, it’s even worse, maybe, an instance of imperfect circles, all coming around so full and inevitable to where Lance stands, a lithe frame in a dress he scraped every last extra penny for to buy; ‘ _something nice’_ he hopes to please the rich geezer he’s an escort for tonight. The slip of blue fabric that is a smidge too big in the chest— he hadn’t the time to sew in padding for that extra effect, the delighted _oomph_ of it all— and doesn’t flow, doesn’t grasp at his legs as he walks, but then again, he’s also a young man in a dress with makeup caked on his face. There are some things Lance has learned to give up, to let fly into the air of the city’s night breeze, like a handkerchief from a diplomat with a little too much time and _way_ too much affection (and disgustingly cheap cologne) for Lance’s tastes. 

 

Takashi Shirogane, however, is _definitely_ in Lance’s personal tastes and in every single way: handsome as hell, all sharp and broad like a man that has been to war and _won_ singlehandedly, and tall as the melting ice sculptures that line the buffet tables. His voice, all warm whiskey swirling around ice cubes in his glass, heats up Lance’s nerves while he simply regurgitates some facts and figures about the charity he heads the board for, is hosting this charity ball for, and it’s for the _kids,_ those poor, unprivileged kids. 

 

That might be the only blemish on this Adonis, this man that grins so elated at the money raised for the urban poor, for the kids, like Lance once was, who weren’t sure when the next meal was, or who simply left home in hopes to give their poor mother, single and working three jobs, to have _one less mouth to feed._ How ironic, all these rich suits and upper crusts, talking about _poverty_ like it’s something they _understand,_ have endured in full breadth, have _suffered_ when their mother’s eyes and sullen face are all they remember whenever they take a bite of food. 

 

(Lance silently hopes his mother, his poor Catholic mother raising his siblings, accepts her son’s small monetary gifts, hopes that she isn’t disgusted by him if she knows, hopes that she hasn’t disowned her son for turning to selling his body and his time for the sake of _surviving_.) 

 

However, Mr. Sex on Legs in Perfectly Tailored Armani might just change Lance’s mind on the ignorance of the upper class with the way those gray eyes light up while he shakes every hand he can grab like he means it, like every cent raised will truly, so truthfully, go to help and to aid, to better the city they all live in, to feed and to clothe those children less fortunate. Shirogane seems so enthralled with the crowd, with the ladies extravagant in their Valentino and Givenchy, and the men arrogant in their Gucci and their Burberry, so delighted… sheesh, Lance wishes he was the escort on that man’s arm instead of this drunkard who is too touchy feely; bastard didn’t pay for anything more than Lance being pretty company, after all, so he gets a lovely face that makes all the old rich buzzards jealous. 

 

That’s _it._  

 

The charity ball, a festivity that tips its hat to the last vestiges of autumn, plays on in all its regalia with aged wine and complex hors d'oeuvre, clinks of wine glasses and chatter of stocks and retirements and vacation homes in the Swiss Alps—Lance is sure he will lose his mind. Sad truth is, while is so used to their lifestyle, so adapted to the needs of the higher ups, the ones with too much money to spend and have to create _gold-flecked gummy bears_ to spend said funds on, has had to scrub his skin until its raw from the touches of men that have paid for their time and ‘right’ to him, he’s still ill at the sight and the sound. Everything in this society, in this secret world the gossip magazines and working middle class dream and idolize… it’s nothing more than _waste._

 

It’s solely this reason that Lance does not charge more because he does not _want_ more, does not want to become these vultures with their too large wallets, though he should prefer to take whatever he can.

 

“You look like you feel a little out of place.” 

 

Any thought, any continuation into the degradation of humanity through greed that Lance could weave in his own mind shuts down, pauses, wraps itself up because it only takes a tilt of his head to see a sympathetic _and hot as fucking hell fire itself_ Shirogane standing just a few inches from him. 

 

If Lance was hungry, touch-starved for more than just what he’s paid to act upon, he’s absolutely ravenous now. 

 

A glissando cascades amongst the muffled noises of the crowd, string quartet easing their bows across strings to create something soft and antique in their rented fineries. The music is merely an accompaniment, a thrilling rhythm that eases into a tempo that beats with Lance’s pulse, because if this is the sound of falling in _lust_ for a rich bastard that looks too damn good in custom fitted suits sewn with buttons that are worth five times Lance’s meager rent, glissandos and crescendos can all culminate in a cacophony for all Lance cares. 

 

The old fart has had far too much to drink, champagne and wine in such easy access that he’s barely standing on his own two feet, keeping a loose arm on Lance’s waist (a hand that keeps dragging too far down— _pay up, bastard_ ) as he guffaws and he gloats about some stock trade or some rambling talk that bores Lance, and would honestly bore anyone with half of a life. However, this man paid for him, paid for a little young thing to follow him through the ball. 

 

… Oh, _yes_ , Lance should leave that out of any small talk he has with this strapping piece of man. 

 

“A little,” Lance says, plainly, because he _is_ out of place, obviously, as his dress came from the clearance rack of a small department store in the cheaper mall in the city, a find that had Lance thanking every star at night, thanking every cold light that passed him by, streetlight, headlight or otherwise. After all, the dress barely clinging to his figure, still dark blue in the warm, yellow lights of chandeliers and ornate fixtures, had still-sewn seams and a severe lack of questionable stains… 

 

Shirogane smiles easily, so easily that the heat of such a handsome grin melts ice and cold hearts, turns snow-laden streets into puddles for splashing. That smile is summer despite the cold outside, despite winter that creeps along the windows and through the city lights. 

 

Lance feels his pulse dive deep, pulsate, then calm; he’s better than this, better than acting like a little school girl encountering her upperclassman crush on her own. 

 

“I don’t really blame you; if it weren’t for the fact that I raised enough money to refurbish the homeless shelter tonight, I really wouldn’t want to be here either.” 

 

A fine eyebrow rises, questioning though curiosity never stills Lance’s tongue when he requires it the most; “you’re refurbishing the homeless shelter…?” Lance has passed through the establishment a couple of times, the shelter on Ninth and Main. It wasn’t the cleanest, nor the friendliest, but it was somewhat warm and somewhat safe. It was a safe enough haven, at least, during the times when sheer will alone could not get him to his small, dank apartment on the outskirts of the grungy part of downtown, when the pain was a little too much and every step was an ache, or when someone was too rough, kept their fingers too tight too long on his neck… 

 

Never again, Lance tells himself. Through the thickest of thick, he’s worked his way up, fought and bit, _sauntered_ and _cooed_ for the position he holds now. He may not be the most sought after escort in the city, but for damn sure he made it on his own. 

 

That is to say Lance makes it out of this fundraiser extravaganza without having to break this old man’s hand. 

 

However, Shirogane seems to observe too greatly for his own good, eases Lance away with the slightest of grips on his wrist. “Mr. Iverson won’t notice you’re gone, I promise,” and it’s a promise Lance wonders if this man can keep, but if he truly wants to do good, charitable things befitting of a philanthropist, well, Lance will permit any promise that falls from those lips. 

 

He may even begrudgingly believe any promise from this man, also, with how his heart already clings to every single word. 

 

“You didn’t answer me,” Lance mutters, hands empty with no drink-- won’t even sniff alcohol to partake after he woke up tied up on a molded mattress and no recollection of how he even arrived there, let alone why all his hard-earned cash was missing from his wallet—fidget instead. Shirogane chuckles, and _God_ above, that voice is whiskey and is bourbon and is smoke pipes with the faintest hints of tobacco. Strike Lance where he stands because that dress may end up being a small salvation in his blossoming arousal, but won’t be for long. 

 

“Yes, I want to donate the funds to refurbish the homeless shelter and buy stock for the kitchen pantry. It’s just one of many projects on my list, but it’s one of the biggest so far,” Shirogane replies in a way that isn’t wholly rehearsed, is more aligned with actual good natured intentions rather than just the façade of it. A sip of his drink, a swallow and Lance is _staring_ at the bob of the other man’s Adam’s Apple, all arises before a soft sigh escapes. 

 

“People need to help other people. Plain and simple.”

 

The statement takes Lance aback, and honestly? He believes this man, believes the speech of doing good with what they have been blessed with, helping others with the money that has been hard-earned or maybe given, but still the intent should be there. Lance has had his own dealings and relationships within the higher ranks since he got his first escort date at least a year ago and has had to learn them, understand and observe much like he were watching lab rats instead of people. The knowledge he has acquired has been nothing but necessary, though, nothing more than a means of survival and keep the few luxuries he allows himself, like that once a month flat white from Starbucks, within reach. 

 

Lance believes Shirogane—“ _Shiro_ ,” he eventually corrects Lance after a bit more whiskey and a few dances while Iverson drinks himself into utter stupor without care—so much that he finds himself on the top floor of the hotel hosting the charity ball, bare skinned and begging underneath one of the richest men in the city like they were locked in an enflamed affair that threatens to burn them both whole.

 

\--

 

The best and worst thing Lance ever did was give Shiro his phone number. 

 

In the lingering foolishness from an afterglow that left Lance’s bones aching, trembling, he scribbled the digits down on hotel stationary, accompanied with a cute ‘call me~’ innuendo above a smeared-lipstick kiss. While crowded in the corner of a lonely elevator down, with his knees quivering with the effort to keep him upright, Lance scoffed, laughed at himself, at the audacity to think that this is fate, that this is anything more than a tryst, a gesture of two people circling each other in the prolonged scheme of things. He doesn’t do casual sex.

 

The bottom-pitted sink of his stomach was the consequence that things weren’t so unsophisticated, when his eyes read the death sentence message from Shiro, explaining that work left him abhorrent to cold calls, so texting was better, a wink face penning the message to uplift the stoic mood of written word.

 

( _Lance will be told later by a stupid mullet head that Shiro was actually in a meeting with several pharmaceutical companies and bored with the usual song and dance while Lance was a far more interesting dancing silhouette lurking about in his mind, unforgettable, subliminal, more worthy of his thoughts than bar graphs and cost margins, so to hell with it._ )   

 

It was all innocent at first, but the dreadful revelation in the middle of the convenience store just a block from his apartment drowned him in ice water and sharp knife-like bites, the realization that Shiro didn’t have a damn _clue_ that Lance was paid escort, simply a more-refined label to Lance’s _actual_ ‘career’ of being a prostitute. 

 

It had just been a few weeks, and Lance from day one had broken his ‘no casual conversation’ rule (he had already broke the no casual sex rule) though Shiro had not paid for any favors nor had he hired him. Lies and aversions were literally the standing foundation of their budding relationship and now, wisdom’s blessing showed that sex on the first night was more hell-bent than heaven-sent. After all, who the hell would so politely text the other partner in a one-night-stand to see how his day was going, was he available for lunch? Dinner? Would he like to come over? There is this little bistro that serves garlic knots I think you’ll like and then the theatre is--. 

 

All these adorable mannerisms might fluster and fancy another person, but to Lance, it spelled ‘Trouble’ like no other. Not that Shiro was _troubling_ or _horrible_ in any sense of thought; in fact, just the opposite, _especially_ in matters concerning a bedroom and just—Lance shakes his head, blinks the heated night out of his thoughts in the chill of the air with hesitancy. 

 

Damn Shiro, just damn him, he is handsome and kind, and the homeless shelter is headlined to begin renovations as early as the first of spring and it really, _really_ just throws every sense of balance Lance encompasses off kilter only for his bearings to fall overboard in a proverbial sea.

 

Honest to God, Lance wants to hate Shiro like he hates some of his clients, but as he stares down at his phone, the off-brand smartphone that works maybe one-fourth of the time while the fluorescent light hums and twitches above, Lance cannot answer Shiro. 

 

The text is so simple, so utterly innocent, so _formal_ that it hurts. ‘ _Off work late. Would you like some hot chocolate? My treat.’_

 

Since the charity ball, Shiro has made no movement towards the sexual side of the situation, has not made one innuendo and snide remark through their texting back and forth. Shiro is a busy man, the head of a firm that is raking in the profits like nothing else while still being known as one of the most charitable organizations. Medical technology has its financial perks, especially when it errs on the side of revolutionary, so Lance can attest to what money can buy if he remembered Shiro’s prosthetic arm despite the blur of fervent kisses and moans. 

 

Dammit. 

 

They fucked. All they did was fuck after some light conversation and a few dances beneath the crystal chandeliers of the hotel ballroom. Shiro might have been a wonderful dancer, flowed as if he were an expert in the art of dance, the two of them grace and flow amidst other bodies that were less so. Spins and dips in accordance to the strings fluttering in the air, the same strings that seized Lance’s heart, wrap mechanically around the throbbing organ whenever Shiro smiled so handsome and lively, whenever Shiro spoke poetry into his ear.

 

 _Like stars,_ Shiro had whispered against the shell of Lance’s ear, meaning the lights shining in the fathomless blues of his partner’s eyes, _they’re like stars in your eyes, they’re so beautiful._

 

In retrospect, Shiro is either an abysmal _idiot_ or knows how to play the game like any other well-dressed gentleman with a hefty bank account. 

 

A shiver courses through him, so Lance draws his scarf closer to him; hot chocolate sounded _heavenly_. 

 

The reluctance, however, still tugs at his core, reminds him of all the horror stories he’s heard in warning from fellow sex workers, all the accosted tales of women and men that bit off more than they ever thought to chew. It’s just hot chocolate, maybe a little date in a small café; he’s managed to brush Shiro off so far, and really… Lance wants to see him again, wants to see the Apollo that captures the eyes of local gossip inserts and man-eating bachelorettes. 

 

Lance’s thumbs tap furiously along the screen before he can even talk himself out of it, before all common sense and _danger, danger_ ring too loudly to yield him, prohibit him from maybe having something good that he doesn’t charge for. 

 

_‘Address?’_

 

-

 

The small café is out the window the moment Lance steps up to an apartment building that is almost as high as any skyscraper housing international firms, Shiro standing outside in a nice Burberry trench coat that makes him just look sickeningly _good_. Every piece of his attire is more than likely from luxury fashion houses, so perfectly assembled and so perfectly particular. All this mental discussion, though, seems insignificant in the way the man glances up from his phone long enough to scour the streets, as if hopeful that his eyes will find the person he’s looking for, leaving Lance a little too hopeful as he approaches stealthily behind a gaggle of young ladies parading about with their Fifth Avenue purchases. 

 

It’s like flash fire and thunder spark when their eyes meet again, like Shiro asking Lance for a dance while the musicians play some deliriously slow waltz with a grand bow that it bubbles forth a horrid _giggle_. 

 

Shiro pockets his phone as he beams because the distraction is no longer essential in holding his ground in the urban society. “Hey… you came,” and the words are so full of sheer brightness, so full of relief and excitement, Lance’s heart cracks a little at the thought that, maybe, the polite ways of this handsome deity amongst the scourge of humanity were more influenced by infatuation than he assumed. 

 

“Yeah… cold out,” Lance shivers, wrapping his own arms around himself in a stance to make some kind of light conversation, though the second he lets out his first line, Shiro is instantly removing his coat, draping it along Lance’s shoulders in an act so tender, it’s first date material. 

 

 _What a gentleman_ , Lance mind chimes bittersweet. 

 

Sheepishly, Shiro’s hands smooth the shoulders down, as if any wrinkles might offend the other man. “Sorry about that… would you like to head up?” 

 

Snorting, it takes every ounce of determination not to roll his eyes in retort, “I thought when you mentioned hot chocolate that it’d be like… I dunno, Starbucks?” 

 

Up close like this is where blue eyes can search, can recall every feature he recalls from the night that occurred days ago, it still feels like a cloud nine dream, a fantasy Lance brewed after a boring excursion of pops of champagne and false promises. The sight should be sinful after seeing the darkest parts of paradise from this man, should entice the flames of arousal that should lick along his nerves, entice Lance into seducing Shiro into his bed. 

 

Instead, it’s the softer details Lance wants to remember, the features he desires to place in the bleary sketchbook of his life, so he can press amaryllis between the pages that lined with the figments that create a fantastical myth known only as _Takashi Shirogane._  

 

At first, there’s the smell of cologne, musky and spicy, that wafts between them, catching the sense of _daring_ and _masculine_. Then, there’s a trace of a fading scar along Shiro’s nose, a scar from a long ago life story that Lance has not asked about and Shiro has not divulged in. There’s those perfect gray irises that peer deep, that latch on to souls and never _let go_ , but then there’s that sharp jaw nestled within the caring loop of a cashmere McQueen scarf that barely hides the marks left behind by Lance’s own mouth. 

 

Or, well… it’s a thought.

 

Lastly, though, it’s the tender expression, the one likened to a small boy being caught in his hopelessly romantic scheme, the one where he’s holding a bouquet of flowers, brimming with red rose, freesia, and aster, all picked from his mother’s prized and precious garden. 

 

“If I told you what I have upstairs is Starbucks, is that the same?”

 

The inquiry brings forth a laugh, a true one, one that glimmers with a freedom of adoration that Lance has not experienced since… well, forever, not since his best friend Hunk in high school, anyway. It was eons ago, compared to where he stands. 

 

He hopes his once friend found that little beach somewhere soil that Hunk can call his own, found the peace his wanderlust heart yearned for so badly back on the islands.

 

Digressions, though, and he steadies back and it’s all winter decadence in the metropolis with a man that’s caught his eye. “That’s cute,” is all he can reply with, but he makes sure to keep a smile there because, really, Shiro _is_ cute, “and I think that’s a solid substitute if it’s that salted caramel stuff.”

 

-

 

It’s _better_ than the salted caramel stuff. 

 

Lance has no clue what secret ingredient this man invested in from some sketchy black market alley gang, or what magic he conjured, but the cup of hot chocolate made in an incredibly glorious and _immaculate_ penthouse kitchen is nothing short of superb, from the frothy surface to the creasy last drop. 

 

The city lights dazzle before the pair as they sit on the couch in the living room, a grand cityscape that glistens like stars, like diamonds and ambers through a glass pane of corporates burning midnight oil and those that have made it home. It’s romantic, really, how comfortable and warm Lance is here, how despite the very fact that, well, they shouldn’t be comfortable, have only known personal interaction in the span of a few hours and text messages over the last few days. 

 

A cough draws Lance out from his thoughts, the Christmas lights of the city blurred as he turns his head to spare his attention to a far, _far_ more interesting sight. 

 

“I actually… hope that I can manage to be professional about this,” Shiro begins, flesh hand rubbing against the side of his neck while his cup of hot chocolate sits on the coaster of the coffee table, chilling without even two sips taken. “But… I was hoping to meet with you like this in private to discuss… an arrangement of sorts.” 

 

There it is, there is the steadily increasing anxiety that clutches long, wicked fingers around Lance’s heart, _squeezes_ tighter, tighter, until all he can do is sit up taller, straighter. There’s a look in Shiro’s eyes that’s completely indecipherable, unknown and _hidden,_ and that scares him, terrifies him because, oh, damn it all, Iverson _snitched,_ probably in an after party rage told Shiro all about the man he slept with, a paid _male_ escort that fancied wearing dresses and heels than ‘ _natural_ ’ attire. 

 

That is not even the worst, is far from the question that will break Lance, that will ruin him and this myth of a man he’s sewn together, has forged and cultivated with bricks of adoration, of lust, of _possibilities._

 

Shiro will ask if Lance has been tested within the past six months, and it will be asked so medically, so bitterly and so tightly, Lance is sure every imagined sinew of the Shiro that has played about in Lance’s head will tear apart, rip apart, will burn until there are only smolders left. 

 

But, oh, then that smile reappears, parts the clouds of stress and worry, eases away the winds of bitter conclusions and slammed doors. It’s a hand on Lance’s cheek, stroking along the peak of a cheekbone as if to reassure that Lance is not dirty, not lacking less in value now that the ‘big secret’ is known. 

 

And then it’s sitting at the table in the dining room, all black and shiny and barely used, for Takashi Shirogane is a private man with affairs he likes to be kept secret, and company and relations are not allowed up. The slick granite is cold, chills Lance’s skin, but the contract sits, idle and perfect, fountain pens waiting for hands to pick them up and sign names in curves and scritches. 

 

Iverson _did_ snitch. In his rage that a young up-and-coming _wannabe_ had stolen what he paid for, what he had purchased for the whole damn party in the first place, the first phone call he placed while nursing a throbbing headache and foul stomach was to Shiro, who was still draped along the pillows and tangled in the sheets, dreaming of warm cotton sunrises while wrapped around lithe curves of caramel skin. 

 

When his cell gone had gone off, playing Apple’s generic ring over and over in the quiet bedroom of the posh suite, he had woken up confused and cold, the other side of the bed vacant except for a few random pillows. Shiro had stumbled about to find his phone in his pants pocket, and took tongue lashing straight on. 

 

Through sleep-addled mental processes, he deciphered Iverson’s uproarious yelling, the message clearly hidden in the fine lines of his thrashing words and spitting anger, that Lance had been a _purchase_ that had been _stolen._

 

Instead of some secret contract for said stolen purchase to keep his mouth shut, to keep gossip from dripping into any media that might look to tarnish a good company’s reputation, the contract is simply terms of agreements for something entirely novel to Lance. The words jumble about, a bit of legal lingo that might simply be present due to the possible official nature of the whole ordeal, but after a few tries, Lance gets it, fully comprehends with a perception that the phone number left on the whimsical venture of unsure intentions was a grander scheme than he ever imagined. 

 

The terms, terribly precise, state that for in return of free rent, utilities, annual medical care with one Doctor Coran, and food, even an _allowance,_ Lance would stay in the top floor penthouse, be at Shiro’s sexual beck and call whenever the man had the free time if he ever did. In return, Lance could do _whatever_ he wanted. He could take on classes, he could take on a part time job for extra money, _anything_ so long as he took residence in the guest room of the richly ‘estate’ Shiro called home and _entertained_ him whenever the workload allowed. 

 

Anything Lance wanted, so long as he signed to agree that whatever he did _not_ want, he would voice, speak out loud. There were spaces, long, almost never-ending places for signatures, initials, and preferred _safe words_. The clause was vibrant, in bold and in red, a statement so profound and critical, it either broke or made the deal; if Lance even so much as did not want to breathe in the same air as Shiro, then so be it. 

 

The plot twist of the night reminds Lance of the fresher girls, the ones that first fall into the scene of walking the streets, inhabiting the darker intersections to earn great money for a few sexual favors. These poor girls were ones that adored that Grey asshole with his crazy, sadistic antics that Lance would personally like to beat with a ten-foot pole. In contradiction to his own forethought, he’d found the first book randomly in some dive, skimmed over a few paragraphs before sneering in disgust and trashing the book; people were paying twelve dollars or more of their money on _that_?  

 

Control isn’t love, control isn’t anything _special_ unless especially given with complete consent, and complete consent is not found in loopholes in contracts that restricts the one ceding their control. Lance acknowledges this, his only bit of wisdom that he immerses in, basks in, other than unplugging every appliance to save electricity and that phones charge faster on airplane mode.  

 

Yet, strangely? It is absolute consent Shiro wants. The intent is lined out perfectly, bulleted in several clauses, whereas Lance scoured each perfect typeset with hopes to find those atrociously luring loopholes to prove him right, but there is _nothing_ that benefits control to Shiro unless Lance gives unequivocal permission. 

 

“I know… it’s a lot,” Shiro mutters behind his hand, jaw leaning into the palm as the draw closer to the end of their discussion—or well, slight tirade on Lance’s part although every bit of this instance leans in his benefit, but nothing makes _sense_ of it. Blue eyes scour gray ones, search, beg and plead to tell him, tell the man that can doll himself up in cake face and slinky dresses, the man, barely twenty-three, that can strut better in stilettos than most career women, the son that was so desperate to help his widowed mother that he finds himself in a plush chair in a penthouse with entrepreneur that somehow truly wants to do something good with this. 

 

“There’s a ‘but’ there, man, I can hear it,” Lance calls out, the seriousness of his stress resonating in the syllables, in the tone that wavers, just a barely-there ebb in the wake of a high tide. “There’s always a ‘but.’”

 

“No buts… other than, well… I know it’s a lot,” is all Shiro can find it to say, shrugs like a tired man, the bags under his eyes heavy and strained, even showing a blemish hue that saddens Lance. There’s a tug at his heartstrings because of a horrid sense of wanting to help that roars to life, wanting to ease the weight of the world off of strong shoulders. 

 

It’s that same roar that fuels his hand reaching for the pen, scribbling out his signature one last time on the last page of the contract. It’s the same ferocity, while timid in its initial wake, blooms stronger, grows more perseverant, as Lance slides the papers over to Shiro for him to sign. 

 

The countenance of astonishment is almost awe-inspiring; “I didn’t think…” is all that is said for the rest of the night in concern to the subject, followed by the quick scratch of pen strokes on paper—the contract is in effect, valid. 

 

-

 

Lance finds himself buried in the quilts of a never-used guest room an hour later after Shiro offers the room until they can gather Lance’s few possessions and fulfill his lease in the morning. After the contract had been signed, it had been placed in the safe in Shiro’s office; the combination is only for the two of them to know.

 

If sex was to follow, Shiro might not have thought of it, never humored himself on the idea of it, or simply did not deem it necessary on this night. Instead, it was more important to gather quilts and pillows for the guest room from the closet, accommodating his new… _roommate_ for the night because why bother sending said roommate back to what will once be his former residence now? 

 

Once the quilts were unfolded and the pillows were fluffed, Shiro turned to Lance, a glimmer of something soft and admiring, a glint of a victory that seemed doomed to never arrive. He approached, gentle and careful, his tone so cautious and tender, “may I kiss you goodnight?” 

 

Struck by the elusive innocence of it, Lance had been shocked, and rightly so. Nothing? Nothing else tonight? No seduction, no lust, no tying the smaller man to a bed for the other to have his wicked way, full of whips and nipple clamps? 

 

“Yeah, sure, but you don’t have to ask now, y’know,” and Lance was assured of his own permission since kissing Shiro is one of his top twenty favorite things in life after the night of the charity ball. Shiro’s kisses were like melting chocolate, decadent and simpering, dripping with sweetness and a hint of darkness that did not frighten or deter, but simply made Lance _curious_. Another kiss, especially one that was a request so graciously asked, would be nothing short of _yes, please_. 

 

But, Shiro chuckled, the sound far off and faint, as if staying in the base of his throat before leaning down, seaming their lips together in a chaste kiss that did more to enflame Lance’s needs and wants than any grope or hot pant of dirty talk could _ever_ do. 

 

And it was gone so soon, the brief moment their lips met, Shiro’s smile all that Lance lingered on before a quiet ‘sleep well’ called out in the lonely guest room, leaving him alone with only his kept-down thoughts racing more vibrantly with each slow breath. 

 

Curling up now, the room dark and quiet with the dwindling bustle of city life outside, it’s almost a lack of humorous folly that he makes to himself, that he will either fall so deep he cannot climb out of the endless rabbit hole, or he will be found chopped up in tiny bits in a gorgeously expensive freezer. 

 

Praying for the first time since he left home, in his mother’s native tongue no less, he prays so desperately and so fearfully in the dread that this is all a too wonderful dream, that this will fade when he awakens to threadbare sheets and a rickety bed frame, that the being known to him as Shiro is a figment of a desire of something so much more, and he ceases to exist in Lance’s world. 

 

-

 

Lance wakes up to perfect pillows and quilts galore, wakes up only from the drifting tidal pools of his dream land, wakes just so in the first cold light of a winter dawn at the warm lips along his forehead before footsteps pad out the door.

 

-

 

The morning finds Lance unsure of what to do. He awakens fully, stretches slow and catlike, the feline motions burrowing him further into the warmth abode of quilts. Humming in delight, he curls around the pillow so endearing that he cannot handle himself; if he could lay right there for the rest of his natural life, he’d be glad to do so. 

 

The minutes tick by, the entire apartment quiet with only the muffled sounds of horns and of clamoring with the chaos of morning work traffic, before the man realizes that his stomach is empty and his bladder is full, the only instinctual signals that finally draw him from his shelter of fine cotton and down. 

 

The bathroom is not too terribly hard to locate, thankfully, but the kitchen is a daunting area that Lance finds to be abysmal and stark. Shiro must hardly eat, finding nothing more than a washed out blender with a half-used bag of frozen fruit alongside a packet of protein powder. The cabinets are bare, occupied with a few protein bars and half-eaten bags of baked potato chips. The freezer and fridge are equally sad, only a limited quantity of the usual staples. 

 

Frowning, Lance is beginning to piece it all together, how the man that offered him a deal of a lifetime even had the motivation to offer such a premise even with his fortune and his charity. The excursion of a meal is forgotten with just the abatement of one of the bags of chips, fortunately, that he finds on a high shelf. While he rustles through the bag to chew thoughtfully on a handful of stale barbeque flavored goodness, he explores some; unless Shiro has installed cameras about the penthouse that Lance cannot find offhand, he rather chalks it up to ‘what Shiro doesn’t know won’t _hurt_ him.’

 

Lance isn’t a thief, anyway, especially to a handsome pedigree of a guy that talked the talk and walked the walk as much as the other. Kleptomania and selling one’s own body were light years away from being related if anyone was so adamant for his opinion, but the observations of the penthouse were perfectly sound on the other hand. 

 

After all, if Lance was going to be paid to live here and then be beneath the man, be at the whim of his… owner? Dominant? _Daddy?_ Oh, sugar daddy, maybe? Wait, how much older than Lance _was_ Shiro? Pretty blues had a sense of perception that aided in the realm of age when it came of the prospect of clients, so he pondered on what he knew of Shiro. 

 

In other words, Lance has years of experience playing ‘what age is he anyway?’

 

The man was ripped, if the twitching abs and rippling muscles found under a suit jacket and silk shirt helped—and oh, Lance was _not_ complaining, would not even _dare._ In addition, Shiro is dark, tall, over six feet, nearly towering over Lance even with the extra inch lift of heels, and broad and just… deliciously handsome that his mouth was watering at the thought of those arms bearing him down, gentle yet firm— _“who do you belong to?”_

 

Well, _dang it._ Sighing with a helpless roll of eyes, Lance trades lusting thoughts of bedroom eyes and the hope of silk on skin for more explorations into the psyche of Takashi Shirogane. A few sneaks into the remaining rooms finds more and more pieces to place on the puzzle, the jigsaw slowly coming together as he finds a fully furnished fitness room, a small storage room and then a study, obviously where Shiro spends almost all of his time with the evidence of stained coffee mugs and notepads strewn about.

 

There’s an iMac, headphones, and a few cords where a phone must have been charging earlier. Along the dark oak wood desk are a few framed pictures, all of a younger, smaller man, so bright and happy, with people that must be his parents, a few high school or university colleagues and a few pretty, pretty girls (Lance will learn at dinner weeks from now those pretty girls are Shiro’s younger sisters, much to Lance’s dismay and elated shock) _._

 

Blue eyes search every crevice of the vibrant photographs because they are precious, treasured, if the placement and use of a frame in the first place are any implication of Shiro’s fondness of them. Eyes trail out and over to the walls, finding several awards—a few for sports, MVPs and Senior Recognition, the typical young sports career fare that doesn’t lead to much after the glory days. Beside them, newer awards, pristine in their quality and their purpose, Most Charitable Company, Citizen’s Award, others to commemorate the _good_ Shiro has done and continues to do. 

 

A soft lean of thoughts takes him back to Shiro, his eyes, how he still had such a youthful exuberance, an energy unmatched, boundless and unsurmountable, yet had the tiniest infractions of crow’s feet along the grin of his eyes, had frown lines forming between his brows. 

 

He may be young still, probably early to mid-thirties at the oldest, but the energy of youth and charisma might be dwindling, long nights of work and charity with little free time catching up with him. It’s depressing that other than the few mementos Lance has found, that there is nothing else, no other presence within Shiro’s life, not one scrap of personality other than his. 

 

Another frown forms along the edges of Lance’s lips after he swallows the mush in his mouth… it’s so quiet, and Shiro did not have a date the other night. In fact, other than Lance, he did not seem to flirt, did not seem to be drawn to the lovely cleavages of the ladies, not seduced by their lined eyes so hungry for him. 

 

Instead, he picked a barely-homeless prostitute reformed into an escort man in a dress; the priorities in attraction were questionable at this point. 

 

However, the bell ring clears in the near silence, long sigh mingling with the shouts of crowds floors below, the weight of the revelation a little too dank and too dismal, it’s suffocating. This life of luxury, of hard work paying off, that whole grandeur of American Dreams within Corporate Affairs, the pomp and circumstance of riches galore where money can afford nothing yet everything, leads to a life of loneliness when intentions are simply well-intended. The penthouse affords such testaments, lets the idea lurk, melancholy and gray, when everything is so perfectly placed, when the warmth is artificial. 

 

There’s a moment or two where Lance stands there in the study, wonders if there was heartbreak, if there was--.

 

“You must be hungry,” and there’s the chuckle from the door, making Lance _shriek_ and jump, nearly losing his footing, nearly causing him to fall over, but then hands find his hips, thumbs smoothing over the just-there curves. 

 

Shiro is even _more_ ravishing— _how?!—_ so clean-shaven and smelling of bergamot spice aroma that enraptures Lance, lulls him into that sense of safety and ardor, he’s so _lost_ with how that simper keeps an ambiance of heat, slow heat, _gentle heat._ Then, though, there’s a sniping gleam of _wait_ that glints there along the depths of gray, Shiro’s hands removing themselves. 

 

“I shouldn’t have startled you, I’m sorry,” is coughed out, the apology a lackluster one at that, but there’s that reluctance that really, _really_ perplexes the Lance, “and I should not have touched you without permission.” 

 

“Dude,” Lance counters, unimpressed because he gets this, he gets all this, gets that Shiro is touch-starved, kiss-starved, wanting his bed with another, wants to spread another beneath him, hear their sweet cries and— _stop it._ Lance resolves himself because he did not scrounge, did not work to take care of himself and send meager offerings to his mother to not know how to act, not know this song and dance so well. 

 

Discarding the bag of chips into the waste bin close to them because there not a very attractive accessory, not even the sense of it. Attraction is a promenade Lance can do even if he is not deeply sure of his own body, finds every flaw remarkably stagnant in the poor light of his tiny bathroom, finds every crevice of himself that he _hates_ , but sex is sex, and that’s _easy._

 

“You can touch me… can _kiss_ me whenever you want,” and the whole thing is smug, and a bit falsely so—he is not against Shiro doing all those things, but more so the premise that it’s all under contract, that Shiro has signed to _pay_ Lance for these physical allowances so long as Lance says _yes._ But, it’s not the right thing to do, and the gesture of Lance’s arms looping around Shiro’s neck do _not_ help. 

 

That isn’t in the contract, though, what _Shiro_ wants because he can want, he can beg, he can attempt force, but if there is even one utterance of _no_ , the body before him, supposedly all for him to help himself to, is not for his to even see. 

 

“It’s what _you_ allow, remember?” Shiro eases out despite the swallow, thick and heavy, to water down the slow burn of desire, to chase away thoughts that are on the darker spectrum of activities. “Besides… we need to go collect your things.”

 

Lance stares for a moment, incredulous, “My things? _Now_?” 

 

It’s only a nod that meets him before Shiro pulls away, pulling his car keys out of his own pocket, tapping at his phone with his other hand, his flesh one. “I wondered if it would be easier to help you gather them. Do you have furniture? We can get a storage room for you.” 

 

No furniture is how he wants to remark, but he really _does_ sound poor then, destitute, despite just being frugal, careful with each penny, with thrift store purchases or sidewalk finds. Lance thinks though, why need furniture when everything is furnished here? He’s not giving up that guest room bed, that’s for sure; it’s too damn heavenly, like sleeping on the fluffiest of clouds in the night time chill, cradling his languorous form. 

 

“Nah, don’t need any of that big stuff, man, just maybe my clothes… yeah,” because there isn’t much else there, not much at all. 

 

Shiro hums, frowning at his phone as he taps with only a thumb as he walks to the door, as if expecting Lance to follow obediently. He does with no reason not to, finding his shoes perched on the mat of the lobby as he slips them on along with his jacket and scarf, Shiro already layered up for the bite of the winter chill. 

 

The elevator ride down to the garage is quiet, but not oppressively so; the air around the taller man is always amicable in his opinion, something summery sweet about it even. Lance isn’t sure if it’s a lure that will end up being the worst scenario is signed himself into, though if he has give himself a little advice, it’s to be warily hopeful. 

 

However, the moment the phone rings, the caller ID glowing with the name _Keith_ changes that aura of cordial comfort into a professionality of business. 

 

“Yes, Keith? … No. I’m not accepting that; Pidge needs the _full_ grant for the cybernetic implants she’s developing and I’ll be damned if they don’t give it to us this time,” Shiro nearly barks into the receiver, startling Lance because, holy _cheese_ , where did that come from, and why is that authoritative gruffness really super hot? 

 

A scoff, a snort of air that is so asinine that Lance honestly feels sorry for whoever Keith is as Shiro carries on after stepping off the elevator towards the line of cars, all chrome-bright and clean, all gorgeous with their custom colors and trims, mainly _expensive_ , “I’ve already talked to them today. _Three times_. I’m not going to let them half-ass our budget for a breakthrough that will help _people_. They _know_ that.” 

 

The speaker muffles Keith, but Lance can hear his own voice rise; not because he disagrees, but more than anything, Shiro isn’t there at the office to deal with it. “Keith, buddy,” and with a tap of the key remote, a gorgeous, jaw-dropping _Aston Martin Vanquish_ roars to life, nearly startling Lance for a second time that day.  Once he shakes off the yelp, he’s in awe, almost in absolute vernation over the racing of the motor and sleek frame that makes his knees a little weak, makes his joints tremble at the power that rumbles the engine and his bones. 

 

It’s just a car. It’s nothing more than something to spend an obscene amount of money on, but the chrome details, the sweeping leather, the whole magnificence of this two-door convertible is like seeing another facet of Shiro himself. From the sense of sight alone, it’s very likely that Shiro likes speed, likes the adrenaline racing through his veins as he whips recklessly along tight curves like he’s piloting a plane with daredevil stunts. 

 

“Keith—buddy, hang on—Lance?” Shiro frowns from where he’s opened the passenger door, phone against his shoulder to pause the conversation on business, to freeze the outside world and bring this all back to perspective, back to them, “you okay?” 

 

Oh, he’s more than okay, totally chill and awesome even. The gears are turning while that little mischievous voice hisses cheerfully he’s certainly should persuade Shiro that cars can be used more than just looking gorgeous and driving. At the thought, Lance just smirks, sauntering over with the noticeable sway of his hips, and _that_ makes those eyes widen just enough to make the appeal that more believable, allow Lance to think he really is an attractive piece of flesh.

 

It makes him believe for a moment that a glorified prostitute has this man’s eye because otherwise, it’s plain, nothing universally ground-shattering, nothing that diamonds and golds envy. Sex is not something that needs beauty, just a willing participant; it isn’t sex, it isn’t passionate outreach, if the will is lacking. 

 

“More than okay,” Lance outright _purrs_ in saccharine tones, in dripping ambrosia, foretelling bed-ridden covenants, “thanks for being a gentleman.” With a flirty wink, and a finger tracing the underside of that tight jaw, he slinks down, perches himself on the passenger seat like he owns it, but the voice in the back of his head, common sense at its worst, screams in warning, shrieks, don’t go too far, _don’t fall too deep._

 

Shiro is paying for this, paying for the promise of temptations abound. The contract is floors above, stories skyward, as a testament to that. Deep is how the rabbit hole goes, yet however far Lance falls, this is on the same level as that phone call with ‘Keith buddy’: strictly business.

 

His heart can yearn, can want, can desire, can _love_ all it wants; love at first sight is not only childish, it’s _dangerous_ , and while this is a great alternative in comparison to scraping by, Lance won’t risk it. Not on Shiro’s dime. 

 

“Ready?” Shiro asks after he’s composed himself, telling Keith to ‘handle it like I know you can, bud,’ and slipped into the driver’s seat. There’s that flutter, that happy lovelorn sigh of heartstrings, when Lance glances over, sees how natural the other man is in this car, in this life. 

 

So, he smiles, just a bit of himself stretching his lips to receive a smile back, stretching out in that passenger seat like he owns it. 

 

“Kick it, Jeeves.” 

 

-

 

Shiro is oddly quiet after the whole affair. 

 

Lance’s things, the ones he isn’t willing to part with, are packed in the few boxes that accommodate the trunk. The boxes are joined only by a few nicer pieces of clothing, including the department store dress which is now the lucky charm of this whole rollercoaster of events, the catalyst that sparked something so strange and so unsure that it’s exhilarating. That exhilaration though is exhausting, so burdensome right now with Shiro’s silence that started with the indescernible look had given the studio apartment when Lance opened the door hesitantly an hour or so prior. 

 

It wasn’t disgust; no, Lance may live in a bad area, may not have much to his name, may be many things, but filthy, he will not allow. His mother instilled that into her son, fortunately, after years of teaching her children to be _grateful_ , to take care of what’s theirs even if it’s cheap, even it isn’t the newest of novelties, isn’t even the most impressive of prizes. A clean apartment with an empty sink and swept floors are a welcome sight after a long night out earning keep, has a sense of protection against the hands of strangers along skin, has a sense of making those touches and words undertaken forgettable. Lance may miss it. 

 

He will _not_ miss the leaks and the creaks, and will definitely not miss the shifty people in the rooms around him that peer out their doors to eye Shiro, as if to size him, wonder if he’s an easy target. Lance can spoil it for them; he isn’t. 

 

By the time Lance was packed, boxes carried down to the Aston Martin and tucked away, the lease was paid for, the contract terms fulfilled before he could even speak or pull out his own wallet to shuffle through the bills. Shiro simply waved him off because that was _too_ simple. “It wasn’t much, if that’s what you’re worried about.” It isn’t. It’s far from what he’s worried about because Lance knew what the payment would be, and it wasn’t the prettiest sum imaginable. 

 

No, _no_ , Lance is more concerned with the whole reality that Shiro walked into that office and _paid_ without batting a lash, without any second thought _._

 

Now, though, silence reigns in the car, no the radio chiming in with the Top Forty of the week or some NPR snooze fest, no small chat to cover the hum of the engine. Shiro’s phone must be on mute, having finally been turned off after the third phone call from the office not even ten minutes into the packing spree. 

 

Turning his attention to the driver, Lance leans back against the plush leather of the seat, basks just a moment in the sight of a handsome man driving an equally handsome car, but curiosity is just a curious design, and Lance asks, “what’re you thinking of, big guy?” 

 

A chuckle, a shift of gears, and a zipping rumble of a luxury sports car weaving in and out expertly through the beginnings of rush hour traffic is all that answers him for a good while there’s a sigh that sounds resolved, assured. 

 

“My next project.”

 

-

 

_A few weeks later, in the business section of the newspaper, read while business owners and career getters sip their Starbucks and eat their high-carb breakfasts, the headline reads: ‘CEO of H & S Pharmaceuticals and Research Gifts Funds to Rejuvenate Economically-Deprived Southside.’_

 

_-_

 

Winter spins and weaves from the last vestiges of autumn’s reds and yellows into the holly-joy and ornament-happy time of Christmas. Thanksgiving was a simple affair of it just being the two of them, ordering take out while watching the lights of the city glow and glisten glamorously through the glass pane of the penthouse window. Lance steps back from his hard work on a small pine tree that he managed to have brought up earlier that day, newly bought ornaments and lights adorning the branches, magical in their design, ethereal and wondrous. 

 

Since moving in, everything is a perfected blur, though Lance is strangely alone more than he thought he would be. He isn’t sure what to have expected when Shiro carried the few boxes of Lance’s possessions into the penthouse, isn’t sure what was meant as over time, the guest room was used more for storage than for Lance to reside in since he found out _very_ quick that Shiro’s bed was obscenely warm and comfortable. It’s a king-sized cotton dream that he likes to flop in every night while Shiro gets ready for bed after a long day of work, and the bed just has this _bounce_ to it that does not fight back, but rather dips then levels, making him sigh happily, ready for the nighttime to cast its web of dreams. The sight never fails to muster a smile from Shiro and sometimes, it even musters him crawling over him, asking, softly, “may I?” 

 

Which… has happened three times? Four? Lance isn’t sure as he reaches up to nestle the tree topper, a frosted silver star of elegant design, a likeness that he was sure that Shiro would appreciate. 

 

It didn’t take long to realize that while, yes, there’s a two-hundred grand car in the garage floors below with Shiro’s name on it, that yes, this penthouse has a rent that is enormously _ridiculous_ , and yes, there’s a closet with several tailored Armani and Gucci suits, Shiro does not expend much of his income on much else. After all, it was not until Lance moved in that Shiro had the basics of a full stock in the pantry, had produce and herbs ready for the culinary. No, Lance does not apply the term ‘gourmet chef’ to his résumé, but his mother’s cooking is something he misses, something he picked up, and Hunk, bless him, he helped in more ways in honing his then best friend’s cooking skills. 

 

Also, the lack of human interaction the first day or so after officially moving in left Lance bored out of his damn mind, restless for something as he searched through YouTube on Shiro’s iMac (free to use, help himself, he was told, just _no_ black market stuff—what a joke), curled up in the chair to watch the plethora of Youtuber chefs bake and whisk their hearts away. A favorite pastime while sipping at cooling tea (lemongrass green with a hint of jasmine because Shiro is _that_ kind of man), he watches knives and pots, learns the ins and outs of stew and casseroles. 

 

The first night Shiro came home to a fully cooked meal, came to a set table and to someone standing in his kitchen, belting out Bruno Mars, dancing over to the fridge with _“I’m a dangerous man with some money in my pocket, c’mon!”_ to grab some parmesan for the finishing garnish, he must have just been so beside himself considering. That night, Lance received kisses he did not even have the thought to ask for, had arms around his waist as a voice murmurs low and adoring, “this all for me?”

 

It made Lance wonder if there was a ring already in his future while amusedly witnessing the demolishment of his labor of love— _stop it, dumb heart._

 

Stepping back to admire his handy work, Lance’s hands settle on his hips while his lungs expel a sigh of accomplishment. His big chore for the day is done, his reward being a decorated tree radiating holiday spirit galore. Already, dinner bubbles in the crockpot because Shiro somehow had everything necessary for Lance to start his own cooking channel if he found himself in such pits of boredom, a beef bourguinon that is harder to pronounce than actually cook, at least.

 

He wonders if there’s anything to clean since he’s taken on the cleaning himself with it just being the two of them, and there really isn’t a need to pay extra for the cleaning service since Lance is there _all day,_ not doing anything overly critical to the structure of the world anyway. In retrospect, he did a sweep of the entire penthouse yesterday, dusted and swept, made sure Shiro’s study was back in order. Though, really, the man is an idiot, would have been stolen blind, taken for a fool, literally _destroyed_ if Lance… wasn’t maybe falling a little in love with him more each day. 

 

God, help him, he needs to stop that, needs to stomp it all down, drown it all out, kill all the flitting heartbeats whenever he hears the door open, hears the call of “I’m home” with the accompaniment of hands along his hips and his shoulders. It drives it all home, makes his core throb, makes the heat rise before it all chills so abruptly when it comes full circle of where this all begins and where it all ends. 

 

If Lance can determine anything, Shiro wanted a companion. Lance hasn’t an inkling of an idea why Shiro couldn’t find someone to live with him because there were plenty of shallow people that would live here with a handsome man, spend his money without signing a contract, pretty voluptuous ladies inching for that plastic bank or sturdy eager guys that play the game effortlessly. Yet, here he is, Lance, a sort-of runaway that has probably tasted more flavored condoms for the sake of a fifty dollar bill than tasted fine wine or… whatever. 

 

His mother had said when he hopped off the stage with his dance troupe at the age of eleven that he was going places; he didn’t figure this is what she meant.

 

Fate must want him to stop the constant overthinking he does now, the doorbell chiming clearly which is an anomaly in Lance’s daily routine at this point. Outside of Shiro and the courteous, elderly bellhop that opens the door for Lance when his arms are laden with grocery bags, the lack of human interaction within the building is daunting. His curiosity piqued, Lance opens the door with a greeting before he blinks, baffled when no one is on the other side, but rather in a person’s place is only a lonely package. 

 

Another moment of searching the quiet hallway provides nothing, so with a shrug and a ‘to hell with it,’ the package comes inside after careful inspection; no bomb or spy gear, Lance assumes, placing it on the counter in the kitchen to go in search of a knife. 

 

It’s a rip or two from there, the radio chiming in with dreamy interludes of Dean Martin crooning about silver bells, as Lance pulls out the first item in the box; a blue lacy bodysuit from La Perla. 

 

At first, he drops it, staring at the other wall because _this_ is different, something unexpected in the weeks he’s been there. It’s been pretty dull, honestly, if anyone expected that _Fifty Shades_ drivel, expected a ‘play room’ where millionaire Takashi Shirogane kept all his bondage fantasies behind lock and key. 

 

On the contrary, Shiro is a man that is work-oriented, appreciating the simpler ideas of life, of piping hot meals awaiting him, then of the cup of tea or drink of bourbon ready for when he goes to his study to continue his work load. Lance joins him some nights, tapping on his phone or on Shiro’s iPad, looking up new recipes or new makeup tutorials because YouTube is a _godsend_ , where has it been all this time?  Taking up space on one of the leather seats, those are the nights he steals glances and sneaks pictures, making Shiro smirk a little while taps on the keyboard or scribbles down notes, glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose. 

There’s only been a few times Shiro has risen from him chair to lean and to ask for kisses, to request permission to carry him to the threshold of the bedroom because the cute giggles are just too much, those blue eyes filled with mirth, they stunt him, make him _yearn_. All of it was a manner of wanting to taste hot pleads, of craving closeness and satiation. 

 

Those nights are memorable to the last inch, to the last pant, but they’re so gentle, so kind, as if Lance was fragile, was as treasured as a steady lover enamored with the thought of love instead of the thought of stability though, for Lance at least, the case is more complex than he’d like. Regardless, Shiro’s hands were calm, sure in their wake, digging into every crevice for weaknesses while his lips, like sin, plucked out praises and profanities all the same. 

 

Every time, Lance was left a satiated mess, overstimulated and too hot for words or for thought, thighs trembling while being kissed deep and tender, knees rattling from being bent too long, hands aching from where he had gripped the shoulders above too tight.  

 

Every time, the moment that killed Lance more than anything else is when their eyes met and it broke his heart, seeing those gray eyes, as if Shiro found the universe for the first time, found the stars and the galaxies in the form of a young man that is a little too sassy and a little too loud and a little too… not worthy of this. 

 

This isn’t love. It surely isn’t. Love at first sight— or pretty thoughts— is a dangerous excursion _,_ but Lance wants to believe, wants so badly to think that this isn’t all contrived against him, that maybe life isn’t full of struggle, that life can be full of wonderment and miracles. Some nights, when Shiro’s arms wrap around his waist, draw him closer to the heat between them, he prays, begs silently in the crook of his intertwined fingers, _please_ don’t take this man away from him, don’t let lust dull and fade, don’t let Shiro lose interest. 

 

This is the closest Lance figures he can live a fairy tale life where he can bask in the afterglow with someone that stole his heart with a few passionate lines of _helping_ the kids, taking care of others before holding said heart for ransom. The whole speech was riveting, the dances were consuming, all distractions to sneak right in and steal his heart, snatch it away with greedy hands, yet those same hands give that heart such care.

 

It’s nerve-racking. 

 

There’s a need to calm himself, let the tension ease out of himself and drift out into the air. He really should walk away and deal with his stressors, but Shiro has gone out of his way and ordered this whole box of lovely, strappy things, each garnent nothing short of spine-tingling with each lingerie set he pulls out; white thigh highs, dark braziers, all silk and lace and just… Lance almost can’t breathe when he gets to the bottom of the box, an envelope there with his name elegantly written in blue ink. 

 

Curious, Lance pics it up, wondering if it’s the packing slip that lists each item and lists the final bill. Head spinning at how much this probably all cost, he nearly rips the seal apart too fast, but steadies his hand to draw a card out. Rich people, he thinks to himself, must go to the edge of every possible way because this card is all too fancy just to be a packing slip for some lingerie, the paper thick and embroidered with stunning patterns. 

 

Peering in, he realizes that the card is a note that is _hand-written_ and his name is outlined in fine cursive as it was on the envelope. He snatches the card open completely then, blue eyes roving the curlicues as his cheeks burn vivid rouge. 

 

_‘Lance,_

 

_Each piece was bought with you in mind; I hope you know this._

 

_Tonight is simple; pick your favorite and wear it for me. Be in my bed by seven. I already know that the package has been delivered by the time you read this, so this is your first task._

 

_I’m eager to see you, kitten.’_

 

There is no upending the command, nothing Lance can do to save the slight shake of his fingers reoccurring as he puts the card down onto the marble countertops. Dumfounded, he stares at the piles of lingerie, subdued because he knows that he will do what he has been told because he _wants_ to, wants to wear something for the man who spent time meticulously choosing each piece for _Lance._

 

He puts away the rest slowly, as if in fear he will ruin one inch of fabric, leaving his favorite draped along the fine comforter of Shiro’s bed, the freesia bodysuit with matching thigh highs before going about the rest of his day in attempt to keep the giddy twitches at bay. 

 

-

 

At seven precisely, the door opens and closes, then nothing more to imply that Shiro is home. 

 

It’s quiet, making Lance’s nerves stand on edge, frazzled and worried because after a long shower and fastidious skin care routine—because Lance will _not_ have his skin not be petal smooth for this night—he’s _still_ on the steps towards darting away. The mayhem in his head leaves him tired, heavy; what if this isn’t what Shiro wants? What if he walks in and is… disappointed? 

 

“Lance.” 

 

Speak of the devil, there he is, the man of the hour, suit jacket falling to the bedroom floor as Shiro stands at the door and gazes over Lance, eyes _hungry_ and _dark_ while he drinks in the sight of lace-trimmed demurity as if it’ll fade away, disappear if he blinks, approaches too quickly.

 

“… Do you like it…?” Lance asks, voice cracking at the edges because demurity he wants to portray, yet falls short with how his sinews can’t seem to sit right to pull it off. He must look awkward, too stiff and too doll-like— a turn off. 

 

Even in the dim light for the sake of ambiance and the chance to play a romantic card under the guise of a scene, he can see how Shiro’s jaw sets hard, how his hands most assuredly undo the Windsor knot of the tie to pull the ends through the collar, steps sure yet prudent as if to discourage the treasure on his bed from fleeing. 

 

His next words emit with a growl that is possessive, _sensual,_ “have you looked at yourself?” After rolling up his sleeves, Shiro stands at the foot of the bed, face tilted down to peer into Lance’s pretty blues while his hand raises up, thumb caressing that quivering bottom lip. “You’re fucking _gorgeous._ ” 

 

Instead of a retort, instead of the usual deprecating voice telling Lance otherwise, some cocky half-shit he barely believes, there is silence. Nothing inside of him works correctly, mental processes fraught with cognitive misfires as the tie loops around Lance’s torso and arms to draw him closer to Shiro, their noses barely touching. 

 

It’s a smirk then, deadly sin reeking at the seams of those lips, those damned lips—“I’m going to make you _sing_ for me, kitten.” 

 

-

 

Everything is _floating_.

 

The bed feels so strange, foreign, and maybe it isn’t even a bed, maybe it’s instead a snow cloud, nestling him so safe, but it’s also so warm, so safe… the elements of the dreaded winter are not found in this realm. 

 

His wrists are freed from the bonds of silk ties, thumbs overlaying the pads along the marks left from the struggle of pleasure. They only ache duly, much like the quivers that quietly quake through his bones, causes him to float more, like a feather along the buoyancy of the ocean surface. 

 

_Lance? Lance._

 

Who is Lance ? What is Lance? Is that him, drifting in the shallows, swarming in the currents of this void, unable to speak, unable to see. The thumbs along his wrists, they’re so soft, so good, as if rubbing life back into his used body, starting to tether him back down in the world with winds and snows and traffic lights. 

 

_Lance? Can you hear me?_

 

The world is still blurry, even when someone unties the knot behind his head with a precise sense of care that it belies the fact that this someone is safe and is good. This someone will take care of him when his own joints lack the ability of basic motor skills. 

 

_Blink twice if you’re okay, if you can understand me._

 

They’re slow, dismally so, but he blinks so, sight adjusting to the barely-lit scene, or after scene, something of that degree, once, twice and then that someone smiles as if relief floods him.

 

_Good... I’m so damn proud of you, kitten._

 

Kitten? Who calls him kitten? The thoughts jumble, fall, splash unto a streams of consciousness that still asks, that still muses who this wonderful person is that kneads along each limb, that kisses every inch of his shoulders and torso and hips as if to heal and to imbibe. It’s a shuddering, quieting ordeal, just be, with how this someone takes each second of time unknown and makes it count. 

 

_You were so good, so good for me. Do you know that? I hope you know that…_

 

The hands move to undo the lace along his neck, drawing down the fabric as if peeling away the last vestments is a moment to revere Lance, to allow the praise unending to flow. The voice of that someone speaks so low, so comforting, like the last embers of a dark fire, dimming yet still thrumming and crackling with heat. There’s no coherency, merely utterances of praise over and over as lips and fingers skim his overstimulated nerves one more before arms draw him up from under, carrying him as a bride would be to a darker room. 

 

It does not stay dark for long, lights on the lowest setting before Lance is cradled against a torso fully, head rolling onto a shoulder as the sound of something rushing echoes in his ears. 

 

Water…? 

 

It’s awhile yet, but then Lance sinks into water warm and lightly scented with vanilla and lavender, something akin to a groan echoing along with the rush of the faucet. 

 

_This okay? Blink twice._

 

Damn, yes, everything is perfect, he’s floating, can’t this someone see that clearly? He’s floating along each breeze, each cadence of steam that will drift him along. Let him sink deep into the depths of the water, dance with the whirlpools and currents. 

 

But, regardless, he blinks twice. This appeases the other man, makes him smile and pet through Lance’s hair. This is good. This is a very good. The pets thread fingers through sweaty brunet strands and it’s enough to let it all happen without even a sound. 

 

The vanilla rich and lavender comfort of the bath salts encourage motions and thoughts to reach further congruence though the cotton-addled space still consumes entirely. The other washes him, bathes him with care and attention deserving of royalty, still pressing kisses along the apples of cheeks and the shells of ears while he works. It almost seems tiresome, everything this man is doing while Lance just stays down, down, _down,_ but then the cool air penetrates despite the residual warmth soaked in by his skin while the water drains. 

 

The pretty thoughts linger and float with him, warming his cooling nerves, washing his worries away.

 

_Almost done…_

 

Then, it’s simply a matter of cotton soft along the droplets of his caramel skin and another transport from the bathroom to the bedroom, blankets wrapping around him so securely before he’s cuddled close to, the flat screen on the wall flicking on while a hand rubs at his back. 

 

_I’m gonna leave you for five seconds, okay? I’ll be right back._

 

Lance blinks, exhausted but realizing, that man’s name is Shiro and Shiro is going to be gone for five seconds. 

 

It isn’t long at all, Shiro returning to the bedroom with a small tray of things, a few bottles of juice, a cup of something steamy, and a few granola bars. After some shifting, Lance is propped up at a comfortable lean against the pillows so blue eyes can dazedly watch a walking, talking rabbit go about being a cop. 

 

_Drink this… slowly. There we go. Good kitty._

 

The lip of a bottle presses to Lance’s lips, so he drinks, does as he’s told, the orange juice splashing into his parched mouth before sliding down his throat. It quenches him, gives his body needed nutrients after being spent in such a rough albeit delightful manner. Shiro is good at this, he thinks, caring for others. 

 

They spend the rest of the night laying there, resting, Shiro helping Lance with granola bars and orange juice before the hot chocolate, the only culinary feat he can claim with pride while he burns everything else, cools enough that Lance can drink it, can smile around the drink made only for him. He earns a lot of kisses, mostly on his brow and in his hair, but Shiro never leaves, falls asleep tucked close around him, and is even there in the morning when the first light of dawn breaks into the bedroom.

 

-

 

“So… if you don’t mind me prying into your business… what got you into the whole, uh, role play thing?”

 

Lance is standing at the sink washing dishes while Shiro takes his now usual place of drying the plates and pans, and though they worked in comfortable silence, the thought had been eating away at Lance for a full two days after their last scene, the one that had left Lance completely useless in motor skills and basic thought processing. 

 

It’s a little too deep considering everything since nothing highlighted and contracted in their agreement included dictation for how to proceed with the whys and hows. It’s a bit like how it’s still strange and bewildering that Shiro even takes his time to help clean after dinner, that Shiro aids in the sense of domestic bliss that confuses Lance, makes him see things that he shouldn’t. Even here, love is probably only chasing those pretty thoughts, thoughts that include kisses and handholding, that include cuddling on the leather couch to watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ with Shiro’s infamous hot chocolate Lance requests whenever he wants. 

 

Pretty thoughts are only pretty when obtainable, but Lance prefers to think upon them in countless ways, and they make him want to know every facet of the man he’s ‘shacked up’ with. 

 

“… Hm. Well, it started with my professor in college, Thace,” Shiro starts after a bit, assuming that he had to mull over if such information was worthy to speak with Lance about, “I minored in International Business in case the whole astronaut thing didn’t work out.” 

 

Lance _almost_ busts out laughing because he never would have even thought Shiro was offering special favors for grades, but that’s probably the _last_ possibility, considering how freaky intelligent Shiro is; the Master’s Degree on the wall in the study accompanying astrophysics books were enough to provide that much. 

 

“So Mr. Space Boy had the hots for teacher, huh?” Lance teases, chuckling and barely pushing his hip against Shiro’s, “did he use a ruler on you? Spank you if you made less than stellar marks?” Frankly, Lance can imagine all of that, and it lays to rest some personal fears of his own, how Shiro was so good to him in the after scenes, understanding of his needs when Lance could not voice them while he floated in his own headspace. 

 

Instead of backlash or any other inclination of anger, Shiro laughs at the teasing gesture. Laughing seems so natural for Shiro, makes those forming stress lines and wrinkles more prominent while still brightening the ambiance of the room. The sight is nothing short of mesmerizing and addictive.

 

“He did spank me a few times. I liked breaking his rules.” 

 

Lance nearly drops the plate, manages to catch it with slippery fingers that only takes true skill to do. “Really? Dude, I didn’t think you were into the ‘spank me, please sir’ life!” 

 

Shiro hums in reply, something he does when he’s still deep in strategic thought. It both unnerves and arouses Lance, quite frankly. 

 

“I was fresh out of high school and wanting something… more. Casual flings and a few bad dates weren’t really cutting it our for me, I guess,” he shrugs, setting one of the clean plates down to pick up another, “still hadn’t gone into the physical training deal of the whole astronaut by then; it wasn’t until he offered the joint program with Galaxy Garrison that I really got, uh, fit again.” 

 

Lance hears the lowering of tone, hears the bit of guilt that sinks into the air. Thace is starting to sound like a real asshole in his opinion, but hey, who knows? “He didn’t like buff daddy Shiro?” Lance snips, a little too snarky, but anyone who throws Shiro aside like a used condom _really_ isn’t high on his list of people. 

 

When Shiro fails to respond, Lance finds it in him to glance up, and what he finds nearly breaks him, nearly makes him put the dishes down to hug him, the pain on Shiro’s face looks fresh and torrential. 

 

 

“No, he… he was nothing but supportive; taught me how to be a good Sub and how to be a great Dom. He taught me all about aftercare, told me which juices to have on hand, how to tie knots just right, how…” 

 

The break at the end of his praise is what stands Lance’s hairs on end, that makes his heart nearly break into a million pieces because this man should never have known this heartache, this anguish that leaves him unable to speak. “… If you don’t want to talk about it, then don’t, okay? I’m sorry for being a jerk, Shiro.” To add some comfort to the apology, Lance dries his hands to knead a little at those broad shoulders, to loosen the tense knots there. 

 

With a heavy sigh, the older man sets the drying towel on the counter, hands gripping at the edge of the double sink to hang his head. There’s something pitiful about this sight, and it only instills Lance to hold his tongue next time, to never bring up a life that once was, as this Shiro lives a tormented life because of it. 

 

They stand there in the kitchen, not speaking another word for minutes on end, Shiro letting Lance knead his back all the way down to the small of it, appreciating the musculature that weakens underneath his fingertips. 

 

“I’ll… I’ll tell you when it’s time, kitten,” and it’s the softest of rumblings, to console instead being consoled as his metal hand reaches up to squeeze one of Lance’s hands. 

 

Lance leaves it at that, determining that it’s a bad assumption on his part to think so poorly of a guy he has never met, has never seen, never even heard, if Shiro is so greatly influenced, turned vulnerable under the onslaught of memories past. Shiro’s hand falls eventually to where his own eyes can glare down at his prosthetic as if it was the bane of his entire existence. 

 

Lance does not bring up Thace ever again. 

 

-

 

Closer to the Christmas holiday break for the company,Lance garners the courage to pack Shiro a hot lunch, fresh from the oven, and risk his presence within the walls of the business that he knows about in interspersed divulgences of information. 

 

There could be a few reasons why, and Lance isn’t sure he wants to be informed of any of them. There is always still, even now, after being lavished in every way he could have dreamed up in the most secretive instances, a bit of mystery behind the mask the other must wear. Shiro is already a makeshift illusion, maybe a myth that Lance concocted in his head is a dismal attempt to forget some sense of malnourishment, but he doe not _feel_ ill or lacking in nutrition, so he supposes it hasn’t slipped down that route at all. 

 

No, lately, Shiro’s lack of presence has been duly noted, the CEO having to put in more hours due to organizing the arrangements for the Christmas Eve gala the pharmaceutical firm puts on for the employees with several guests. It’s also disguised as another charity event with hopes to raise funds for a children’s home another part of the city. Lance has read the pamphlets and their needs for resources, and knew the moment he saw the donation slips what exactly was going through his… what was he anyway? 

 

As he packs up Brunswick stew and a turkey panini with provolone, Lance mindlessly works, still considering what he was in regards of Shiro, and what Shiro preferred to be thought of as. Yes, Lance playfully called Shiro ‘papí’ with a flirtatious tone, making sure he curved his hips, let Shiro’s eyes roam down over the swell of his ass in the lacy panties Shiro insisted on purchasing. Ever since the first scene with using lingerie, Lance found himself growing in confidence, enjoying the adventure of reading into reactions, how that jaw would tighten, how that Adam’s Apple would shift with a thick swallow, how that tongue would lick at his bottom lip as if starving. 

 

But, that still did not answer what Shiro was, what label to apply to this whole conundrum. With packing the thermos and Tupperware into a small bag, only the term ‘sugar daddy’ seemed to fit, however, Shiro despised the term. 

 

“It’s… I’m only, what, six, seven years older than you,” he had mentioned in passing when Lance used it once, “and it’s not like you spend a lot. You can spend whatever you want, you know.”

 

Lance didn’t. He bought a few new outfits, on sale rather than marked clearance, and groceries and that was… really it, if he considered it. Besides, anything more than fifty dollars was clearly on Shiro if the ever-growing crossdress kink was anything to go by. 

 

Oh, wait. Lance went on a splurge in Sephora with his new plastic card the other day. Oops. 

 

Thankfully, it isn’t a long trek, Shiro having rented a penthouse only a few blocks down from the company building making things fairly easy in the regard of transit time. Aware of Shiro walking everyday back and forth to work, Lance is prepared to handle the chill, bundling his scarf closer as he goes down the street, passing other nicely-dressed career people, all scurrying towards their next promotion or project with black suits with only the women having some cute pops of color. Instead of staring at a life Lance knows he would not be able to handle, with the stresses of balancing books and undertaking loads of paperwork, he looks over the glorious Christmas decorations, bright greens of garland wrapped around light poles, accented with the cherry reds of Christmas bows and shiny silver of snowflakes. 

 

It’s calming, invigorating, how the Christmas spirit, the sense of wonderment can even be found in busy corporate life. 

 

As he passes along, the trek to the building passes faster than intended, Lance finding himself before doors with guards and a professional plaque listing each company housed in the steel and glass building. 

 

“Um…” he walks up to a guard since it appears there’s a keycard entry, much like the elevators in the apartments. Despite the weather, he’s beginning to sweat from stress; he can handle much anything, but going into a place of business other than for a client has never been his forte. 

 

“Which company, sir?” is gruffly asked, though the guard is eyeing the eyeliner, sharp and perfect, that line Lance’s blue eyes and the nude lip. Lance figured he out to look, he’s not sure, but not bland, not prettied up in some form as he brings hot lunch like a housewife.

 

He really needs to stop that. 

 

“H & S…? I’m here for Takashi Shirogane,” and as far as further explanation, he shows the bag of lunch.

 

The guard nods, pulling out a keycard and swiping it, the automatic door beeping before sliding open. “Elevator, tenth floor.” 

 

Thanking the guard, Lance walks in, and if the streets seemed busy, this place was oddly quiet with only a few receptionists and workers from the odd number of companies pacing about in the foyer. 

 

Whatever, he shrugs, as he’s only here for one goal, and that’s to hope that Shiro won’t be infuriated that his paid ‘whore’ has come to pay him a little visit. 

 

 _“Don’t call yourself that,”_ rings gruff and guilty in his head, and that voice is Shiro, even so real that he can see the furrow of a brow under graying bangs, “ _no one should ever be called that unless they ask to be._ ”

 

Shiro is too good for this world, but then again, Lance is sure he wouldn’t be in love otherwise. 

 

It’s another elevator ride to the tenth floor, a proud plaque hanging from behind the receptionist desk declaring the floor for _H & S Pharmaceuticals and Research, Inc. _The receptionists, three of them, are all pretty blonds, frail and dressed for their position to be the first sight when entering the premises, and if Lance were not so sure of the man he was there to see, he’d have laid it on _thick_ , especially the one with loose curls that’s giving him a smile, name tag declaring her _Nyma._

 

“Good afternoon; what can I help you with?” this Nyma smoothly asks, her voice just a tinge of husky that sends a short spark down Lance’s back. She stands, smoothing out her pencil skirt, and oh, hell, it’s ever worse, she’s taller than him. 

 

But she doesn’t have those eyes that sends Lance into a tailspin, doesn’t have those hands that ground him from the clouds of subspace, ease gently down onto the bed and—.

 

_Down, boy._

 

“I’m here to see Shi— er, Takashi Shirogane, ma’am,” he answers, getting into a smooth social stance, grinning as handsomely as he can, but she’s eyeing that makeup. Damn, why’d he do it? 

 

“He’s in a meeting right now, but I can get you to his assistant, Mr. Kogane,” she tells him, walking from her seat and waving to the other girls, “you’re kind of underdressed for a medical firm or pharm’ rep… love the eyeliner though. Sharp as hell.” 

 

Preening a bit while draping an arm over the counter of the desk, Lance grins and winks, “I could show you how la… Sorry.” It’s a cough in his hand because it’s so reliable, so effortless it seems to fall into old habits of hiding his problems. Nyma is gorgeous, definitely his type aesthetically, but his heart clenches at not being ‘loyal,’ flirty teases now on reserve for Shiro only. “Old flirting habits die hard. I’m working on that.” 

 

“Oh, you’re a _way_ better catch then most of great grandpas that flirt with me,” she chuckles, guiding him down a corridor lined with cherry wood walls and brass fixtures, “I’m used to guys flirting, really, no offense taken. Seems like you’re here more for a courtesy call though considering the bag…” She sniffs lightly, smiling, “I smell bread.” 

 

“It’s his lunch,” Lance answers, and someone slap him where he stands, he sounds like a fucking housewife, like he has the right to do this. No, actually, he’s paid for, not offered lavish lifestyle for nothing, after all, gold price tag to prove it.

 

Nyma thinks nothing of it with how she smiles slyly though, “oh, it’s _you_ that’s been gettin’ cozy with our CEO? About time he started dating. Thought he was going to ask his psychiatrist out before he went crazy from loneliness. Working your life away does that.”

 

Anything happy and buoyant brimming within Lance has suddenly sunk at Nyma’s chit chat, seemingly innocent at first, but it already spreads quick and sure like poison. It’s suddenly cold inside, bones frostbitten and core shriveling at the world he’s approached and realized he had no right to see and to hear. 

 

He never even thought of it, never even presumed that Shiro’s life was completely outside of Lance, devoid of Lance. Whenever he was home, there was nothing outside of devotion and of attention, of assuring smiles and amatory touches, that it created the little world within the penthouse that the reality of the outside didn’t touch. 

 

Nyma must surely not have meant any vice because her smile down towards Lance holds no toxin or spite; she winks in a flirt, “he found a cutie, at least.” 

 

Lance can’t help but feel a just a wash of relief from that. She means well, he thinks, just comes off badly sometimes. He likes her; he hopes he has the courage to come back again if Shiro isn’t too angry at him. Hell, maybe he should work here? A bad idea, probably, since Nyma and him would roll everyone with their flirt flairs and killer looks. 

 

“Mr. Kogane is in here, so be, uh… vigilant,” she titters, still well meaning, but there’s that facade that leads him astray and worries him. 

 

He swallows back his fears and doubts; he’s come this far, he’s entered the lion’s den, and he will not leave until that lion has his panini and stew. 

 

Nyma opens the door with a jerk forward, calling out in bittersweet singsong, “Yo, Keith~! Pretty thing here to see Shiro, so cancel all his afternoon appointments!” There’s a curse and roll of chair wheels from within the office, Nyma giggling as she ushers Lance in and shuts the door behind him with a “see ya around, cutie!” 

 

It’s a posh office with dark red carpets and gold accents, a nice view of uptown and the foreboding snow clouds. Keith is a dark-haired man (Lance thought he’d be blond) with plum eyes that are in near slits. For a second, Keith looks like he has the temper of a cat that has had its tail stepped on, ready to pounce in for whoever decided to step on said tail.  

 

“Aw, hell,” Keith mutters, looking Lance up and down as if he’s assessing the lot of it, jumping to conclusions that can only be summed up as ‘bad idea,’ “you’re Lance.” 

 

Aw, hell? _Aw, hell?_

 

“The heck does that mean, mullet head?” Lance bites back, starting to morph from a nervous little ‘boy’ to a pissed off hellion, ready to deck this shorter man that acts as assistant to the gentleman that Lance spreads his legs wide and eager for. Is this idiot this unprofessional with everyone else? 

 

Keith knows him though, and Lance never thought that Shiro would mention Lance to anyone, but that might have been due to a lack of preparation with hindsight merely being twenty-twenty at this time. He’s here, lion den and all, a gladiator adorned with hot food and pretty batting blues. 

 

He’s also wearing the skinny jeans that ‘perfectly shapes to his ass.’ Lance is as armed as he could possibly fathom, yet here he is at the fifty foot wall in the form of a man a good few inches smaller than him. 

 

“Nothing bad… just, huh…” Keith sits back in his black chair, the leather shifting with his weight as he crosses his knees. “You’re taller than he made out to be, though he wasn’t kidding about the skinny part.” 

 

_Ouch._

 

There will be a discussion and a revision to the contract when Shiro returns home from his job tonight, and Lance just hopes he still isn’t offended enough to not cook dinner. If he’s so inclined to discuss the less pleasing features of Lance’s body with his coworkers, then Shiro can buy dinner from the Thai place that delivers through hailstorms and maelstroms alike.

 

“Is Shiro here?” Lance deflects, starting to feel his blood pressure rise with the desire to deck Keith where he sits, let the guy fall over to the ground and lay there blacked out until sundown, or if Lance is lucky, he will punch him so hard he goes back to the nineties where he belongs. In admission, the bag of food is brought up higher to Keith’s attention because he at least wants to enlighten the masses— in this case, this asshole— that he is simply here on a domestic call, not here to suck dick underneath a client’s desk. 

 

The desk in the penthouse study is more than suitable for that anyway, with the obvious advantage of being more private, too. 

 

Keith crosses his arms with an air of boredom, tilting his towards another door. “He’s having his weekly session with his psychiatrist,” he remarks as if the news should shock Lance, and it honestly does, as there was never any mention of a psychiatrist, ever. “Been in there awhile this time.”

 

Nyma’s mention of Shiro propositioning his psychiatrist makes sends Lance’s head spinning, poking and prodding at every possibility, of how this psychiatrist appeals to Shiro, of how maybe while Lance stands outside with a small, lackluster gift, Shiro might have the swept the items clean off his desk, pressed another body against the grain of wood as they have a simple office fuck. 

 

It hurts. It hurts more than Lance ever thought it would, and mullet over there, he might be gloating, but Lance will learn that it’s more informative than anything else. 

 

It’s best to leave at all this backlash, best to leave this world be for the rest of the duration of the contract, best to let Shiro have his life and his reality that does not include Lance. “I’ll just leave this here, then,” he offers to Keith, setting the bag down, “just don’t eat it for him.”

 

The second the threat escapes him, the door opens, and Lance is met with another gorgeous broad that looks like she can tie him up and make him scream. 

 

The psychiatrist is nothing short of model worthy, lean and cut, filling out her white pants suit like she owns the universe in the palm of her hand. Her eyes are much like Lance’s in color, but lack the ignorance of professionally and are instead filled to the brim with _prowess._ Her eyes flit over, in fact, find Lance, and she doesn’t even have to speak, Lance knows he’s done for.

 

Shiro has good taste, Lance has to admit, if she’s the one he was going to court amidst the insanity of working as a CEO of a flourishing business. Shiro would be that traditional sap in the dating scene, holding doors and offering his coat during the dusting of snow on walks through the park. She would be a great asset on his arm, her stance commanding and demanding respect. 

 

She looks successful, and doubtful that she ever had to give hand jobs to make ends meet. 

 

 “‘Bout time,” Keith breaks into the silence, poking the bag with the stylus of his tablet, “you’re a fucking hour and twenty minutes over; talk about breaking the record of how many damn calls I have to send to your voice mail.” 

 

“You’re as remarkable with your salutations as you are your greetings, Keith,” and shit, she has a luxurious accent, unprecedented in caliber as she offers a fairer tone to her reprimand, “but I believe I have him back to himself.” 

 

Lance doesn’t understand, though her eyes keep making their way to him to study him. Is he a threat maybe? Hardly. Too skinny, after all, compared to this goddess of a woman. 

 

“What a shock, though, to find _you_ here,” she directs over, heels clicking as she near saunters over, subliminal face a bit smug, “you must have known we were talking about you.” 

 

Lance is sure now he is never coming back now, and while this woman would normally knock him off his feet and be allowed to carry him away, his ego has taken a huge blow, laying tattered in pieces. 

 

“Fancy that,” he mumbles, glaring up at her, silently damning her for her four inch heels that give her the height she needs, that help her ass and her calves rock those pants even better than he could, “seems like I’m a legend around here.” 

 

It’s then Shiro walks out of his office, tapping worriedly at his phone, “Allura, thanks for coming again, but I need to go— Lance?” 

 

It’s asked more out of astonishment than disbelief, more out of pleasant surprise than being caught red-handed. In fact, Shiro smiles a little as he steps forward, “I was getting worried… you usually text.” 

 

Oh. Oh, this is a surprise. It’s pleasant even with how he lights up, how the age and the stress lifts from Shiro’s shoulders and handsome features, wrinkles smoothing over in spite of the deep dimples. 

 

There isn’t much to offer as Shiro is right, Lance does text, usually frivolous things about dinner preparations, and on the rare occasion Lance is in the mood, a ‘not safe for work’ picture with thigh highs and garter belts here and there. To lengthen the surprise factor, he had refrained from texting Shiro today, though it hadn’t been as intended to cause alarm.

 

So, he does whatever he can to keep it all in check, at least to save his own ‘reputation’ and Shiro’s freaky nature of being worried about him, “I made lunch and…”

 

If Shiro were a star, he’d have glowed brighter then, maybe even reaching supernova as he beams ear to ear at Lance, as if the shorter man had hung the moon from the sky just for him, “You brought me lunch? You’re my hero, I was starving!” 

 

Allura waves her hand over at Shiro all nonchalant, angling her body to eye him like lynx ready to pounce on her prey that unsuspectedly distracted by a pretty mate, “because you simply have so much to talk about, dear.” When Shiro steps closer, eyes still focused on Lance, she pats his shoulder, everything changing about her demeanor, going from all scrupulous business to personal and comforting within milliseconds. 

 

“And I can see why now.”

 

-

 

The first nightmare is honestly the scariest moment in Lance’s twenty-three year life. 

 

He has been in shady situations, some where he believes that he will not make it out whole, some where he has been so _sure_ that he will end up on the ‘Missing’ posters scattered throughout the city, but nothing is as blood-curdling, as cold sweat inducing as hearing Shiro _scream_.

 

It’s some odd o’clock, the apartment completely dark with the privacy shades shut, and Lance can barely see a damn thing. It takes forever to turn on a light, to turn over and see Shiro writhing as if he’s on fire, yelling, cold sweat trickling down his forehead and dampening the pillow— it’s horrific, how Lance hears the other man beg, _no, no, stop it now, please_ like it’s the only mantra he can fathom, the only defense he has. 

 

Lance isn’t sure what to do, but his heart beats hard, thuds and pounds in his chest because this isn’t his Shiro, isn’t his firm foundation, isn’t the rock against the onslaught of tidal rifts, and it rickets his own core. However, for this man, the one that’s now thrashing against the bed, eyelids twitching with unseen terrors, he’ll swallow it all down, that ominous sense of where this all came from, and do his best. 

 

“Shiro…” he starts, fingers brushing along his forehead before they slide to cup his cheeks, pressing feather soft kisses along his creased forehead, the thrashing starting to reach a lull, the line between nightmare and reality become finer, thicker, as Lance talks to Shiro in gentle tones. Almost unbeknownst to himself, Lance’s mother tongue breezes along hips as he sings a lullaby he vaguely remembers from those nights when the thunderstorms seemed too close, when sometimes he snuck his portions to his younger siblings and laid there with hunger pangs because he wanted to be so strong and self-sacrificing like his mother. Eventually, with all of Lance’s doting, lullabies and assuages in all, Shiro quiets in time, nightmare seeping into the air in dissipating ashes as eyes flutter half-open once, twice, and then finally, Shiro stills, stirs from his battle with unknown adversaries to find depths of worry and relief. 

 

“Hey, man, don’t scare someone like that,” Lance finally huffs, pressing another kiss along his forehead while his thumbs pet along those cheekbones, finding solace in the act. “It’s freaking _rude_.” 

 

Shiro watches him, observing, as if the pieces are not completely there, the heaviness of restless sleep hindering comprehension of what was happening, but then he smiles just so sadly, as if lamenting a fond friend he lost ages ago.

 

“I’ll be better next time.” 

 

It’s an answer Lance refuses to accept, and makes it well known, scoffing and nudging Shiro until the man’s head rests on Lance’s chest to listen the reassurance of steady heartbeats, how they thump in steady rhythm with the rush of blood circulation and Lance’s own emotions. In this way, the rabbit hole becomes farther, deeper, still endless and yet seemingly more so with how Shiro nuzzles right in, let’s himself be the one taken care of, let’s himself tell this hired bedmate his story.

 

Shiro had once wanted to be among the stars, wanted to know them so intimately that he’d know their very components, know the chemical reactions and base elements like he’d know his own name. As a child, he wanted to fly, higher than any other member of mankind, wanted to traverse a universe that holds such mystery, such wonder, that it may have finally been the solution to the wanderlust that consumed his every thought, his own desires. 

 

He had been successful, going through the newest branch of the military for space travel and observation within the Air Force, the Galaxy Garrison. He excelled in every class, in every subject while still attending regular courses at his college, still under Thace as his Business student and his Sub. 

 

No simulation kept him down, nothing allowed to even inch itself in to ruin any chance to finally fly among the worlds so far away. He handled every challenge with confident composure, the same composure that Thace had helped build, helped create with firm, guiding hands and words of wisdom. 

 

Then, in a final simulated test before a test flight of a new observatory shuttle, under the careful guidance of Samuel Holt, a rising leader within astrophysics and space flight, there was a freak accident. The sudden errors in calibration for the training vessel caused the machine to malfunction in such a way that Shiro can only remember the rush of velocity, the crunching of bones, and the smell of his own burning flesh. 

 

Thace had been there as a guest and as an advisor. The horrors he witnessed, the fires and the screams of his lover and advisee in time with the screech of warping metal, were so brutal and so breaking, left him speechless, left him guilt ridden as he was the one to lead Shiro down the path to discovering the Final Frontier.

 

In the end, Shiro had broken their relationship, torn it apart with the idea in mind that the new prosthetic on the stump of his right arm was what really set Thace off. He wasn’t whole anymore, no longer the Adonis Thace teasingly called him. No, with years and experiences that had aged him, wisened him to the lessons that life had to offer, he knows now that the garish robotic arm was just a reminder that Thace had a part in that accident. 

 

“Turns out…” Shiro finally sighs as he reaches the end of it all, having recounted hours’ worth of memories from his golden student days, those days when he had such hope and ability in his own future and his relationship with his professor, “Commander Holt’s son had started on a final project in prosthetics around that time and needed a guinea pig to try it on.” The laugh that follows is nothing short of bitter, but never towards the Holts, _never_ , “and that’s… how I got this.” With a familiar whir, Shiro brings up his robotic arm, the one that’s attached to a stump of an arm, the one that is so advanced that the nodes digging into the skin of his shoulder reads neurological processes. 

It all goes over Lance’s head, though that desire to see the sights beyond, to go to places far from where he stood on Earth… that all hits in a surreptitious way that Lance would rather keep secret, rather not have to discuss himself. 

 

It’s like standing on the beach at night with the waves welcoming him, calling him like a siren’s song, bidding him closer like a mother calls for her child to come home. The ocean is to Lance like those stars are to Shiro, abysmal to others, foreboding with such enigmatic prospects, but that’s the whole audacity of enjoying it. It isn’t especially good for them, wanting things, enamored with worlds that are beyond their grasps. 

 

Lance ponders and agrees with himself that the world right there and then was as good as it would ever get. 

 

Shiro’s eyes linger on the mechanical intricacies and details for too long, Lance thinks, so he reaches for the skin of that right shoulder, caressing around the metal borders. Deep down, Lance is no Thace, no strong confidant with only the best intentions in mind for Shiro. He isn’t Allura by any means, a college friend turned successful psychiatrist that can know Shiro in more ways than most people ever would, and he _certainly_ isn’t Keith, steadfast and impulsively eager to assist his boss. 

 

Despite what Lance is not and cannot be or do, Lance can touch and can caress; he can be a distraction. 

 

“Y’know… it works out for us though, Mr. Shirogane,” he offers with a small smirk because he’s got something playing at his mind, something that might actually bring back an honest smile, a kind laugh. 

 

“How’s that, kitten?” Shiro asks the man he’s half-resting on, the cold, metal fingers finding Lance’s warm hand to ease it closer, to kiss along the knuckles. 

 

“I’m _totally_ into temperature play.” 

 

There that’s chuckle, the almost-quiet laughter Shiro makes when Lance jokes or flirts so directly, but then it melts into the shifting of a larger body crawling over Lance’s, an overcast morning in Shiro’s eyes as he gazes down. 

 

They stay there just like that, as if anything more will break this spell, will chase away the moment like a scared prey from a predator, but the hunt isn’t there, no run and chase; it’s simply a man that lost his dream, still relives the tragedy that stole his arm and his confidence in the universe of stars and comet dust away, watching the younger man beneath him like he's more valuable that any star plucked from the sky ever could. 

 

“Shiro…?” whispers Lance when Shiro’s left hand holds his jaw so adoringly it may make Lance cry, push him away. It’s enough to join Shiro in bed, it’s enough to live and to breathe in his life, it’s enough to be able to go out and find a job to work on experience that isn’t dropping to his knees on cold asphalt. 

 

It’s enough that he can imagine that Shiro, the multi-millionaire that took his tragic accident to create a company that will not only revolutionize medical technology, but also provide the profits to give back to those less fortunate and ‘swindle’ the higher class out of their own money for those fundraisers— might have an ounce of love for Lance. 

 

It’s a long moment, infinitesimal even, silver hued and languidly warm, before Shiro leans forward, presses their lips together, muttering beneath his breath, “you’re _beautiful_.” 

 

Lance feels the ache in his heart, the kind that hitches his breath and leaves him speechless, leaves him without retort except those lips on his are doing that plenty, dragging out quiet moans and grunts. Hands roam his body as they have done so many times the weeks prior, but in the dead of night in a sleeping city, it’s just them in the world despite the populations, just the two souls that lay in the dim lamplight.

 

It’s when the thick heat of Shiro’s cock settles inside after what seems like eons of kisses and touches and whispered reverence through heated breaths, so heavy and familiar, that it culminates in a horrifying thought. It’s a realization that makes a choke catch in Lance’s throat, compels him to press a hand to his mouth as Shiro shifts, so gentle and so, so _loving._ Lance is in love, so far gone, having hit the bottom of the ocean floor that in a seas that’s dragged him down, but all he thinks of, pleads for, is _Shiro, Shiro, Shiro…_

 

The man in question and the man who's back Lance clings to, feels the roll of power in those muscles as he takes his time, makes love to Lance, invoking tears that Lance cannot explain to him lest Shiro realizes what an awful mistake he’s made. Instead of asking, Shiro merely kisses eyelids so tender, thumbs brushing each teardrop away as he groans and falls into another mess of words, weaving more praises for Lance, his lips, his body, his eyes, and oh, God, his _heart._

 

Lance lays beneath him, feels each inch of each thrust into his willing body, unable to stop the onslaught of his own flaring affections, so he simply drowns, his own words a needy, wet hymn.

 

With the curtains along the windows, morning could have passed, could be night again, a full cycle of a days or even weeks could have flown by, but neither bother, so engrossed in the heat and comfort Lance provides until they meet their completion together in quelling embers, nerves alight and pulses lukewarm. 

 

They bask in each other, touching sweat-slicked skins as Shiro attempts to kiss every worry line from Lance’s forehead though his endeavors are fruitless, the doubt ensnared so deep, the thorns dig even tighter. Finally, when Shiro finally falls into slumber, peaceful, Lance prays as he has so many nights before, wraps his fingers along the back of Shiro’s neck and just begs silently, don’t ever let this man see through him. 

 

-

 

Lance dreams of Hunk that night, of his sad, worrisome smile, of his large hand on his bony shoulder with the words, “you’ll find someone that loves you, buddy, I promise.” 

 

It’s then a blur of images, childhood memories with his once best friends, shifting like palm trees swaying in the sigh of a breeze before it all ends with static overriding, ending it all with the roar of airplane engines and cries of seagulls. 

 

-

 

Christmas arrives in its sudden flourish with yuletide carols and the ringing of bells from the cold volunteers hoping to raise money for those less fortunate. In uptown, Christmas is a forever spectacle, silvers and golds all intertwined with rubies and emeralds resplendent. The Shirogane household Christmas tree is decorated instead with blues and grays as silver is a bit garnish with all the embellishment outside. Shiro liked the tree, making a cute remark that it belonged in one of those home magazines. 

 

After the past few times of visiting Shiro at work, having started to include lunch for Keith after apparently, the spitting arguments made Keith appreciate Lance and want him around more. “He says your cooking smelled ‘okay,’” Shiro had laughed against the nape of his neck one night, kissing the curve delicately, “which translate to he was hungry, too.”

 

Lance doesn’t like Keith, particularly, but he does his job well and takes a million burdens off of Shiro, so he can at least begrudgingly show his appreciation with a bit of home cooked food. Keith complains every time, just little snips to annoy Lance, but at the end, he eats every bite and gives his thanks. 

 

Since Shiro arrived to start getting ready for the Christmas Ball, Keith has already called a total of five times. Yes, Shiro’s suit has arrived from the cleaners, yes, they shined his shoes, Keith. The bastard is a madman for details, but they both know how important the Ball is to Shiro, the last of this year’s charitable events before the next year rings in. 

 

With other clients, maybe, Lance would assume the worst, that he’s invited and expected to play the part of willing guest, but honestly, he has not posed the question and he has full intention of not posing it. If Shiro wanted him there, he would ask, simple as that. This is something for the betterment of society, though on a ‘small’ scale, and he refuses to allow himself to be a detriment when his experience of lavish events just include the sometimes ‘after party’ payout. 

 

“Lance?” Shiro calls out as he walks from the bedroom, fastening his cufflinks and already looking handsomely decadent with that too-tight white button up and those dark gray slacks. Staring, Lance wonders how badly he wants to make Shiro, the host of the event, late to his own celebration. 

 

“Yeah, león?” Lance teases from where he sits on the recliner since he isn’t sure what to do, fiddling with the iPad to chunk weird bird balls at fugly pigs so he isn’t sitting there simply lusting over Shiro getting dressed as opposed to the opposite. 

 

Shiro raises an eyebrow at him as he fastens the other cuff, “why aren’t you getting ready?”

 

He was expecting to be asked where his handkerchiefs were at, not why he was being lazy: “Um, what?”

 

Shiro discerns him as if to ensure there isn’t something being hidden before the mental lightbulb apparently flicks on and he breathes out, “you didn’t see it, did you?”

 

Well, there goes his high score attempts; gingerly, the iPad sits on the arm of the chair as Lance stands, popping his back since he was curled up for a bit. “See what? You? ‘Cause you’re freaking _hot_ just like that.” 

 

The incredulous look fades with a mirthful chuckle, “I haven’t even put on your favorite cologne, you little minx. Come here, I thought you had seen it.” Shiro fingers curl in a ‘come hither,’ looking as smugly handsome as he ever could, making more than just Lance’s curiosity pique. 

 

Another present? Imagine that, Lance thinks, stepping in behind Shiro as he falls back into the bedroom, turning to rustle in the walk-in closet to pull out a long ivory box that lacks any emblem of any luxury brand yet lavished with a glorious blue bow. In a bit of a nervous tick, Lance fixes the sleeves of his sweater. “Merry Christmas?”

 

Shiro laughs under his breath as he sets the box on the bed, much what he is laying down is an expensive, fragile masterpiece. “You’ll get your presents in the morning, but… this is for tonight. I guess I got so busy with getting it all together I forgot to ask you out and show you this.” 

 

Lance kisses his cheek, something he’s too used to and hates all at once because it’s an act of feelings that should not even be entertained, yet here he is. “Just didn’t want to rain on your parade, y’know, with the whole…” he can’t find the words, so his hands act instead, waving about in the air to conjure the idea in Shiro’s head. 

 

“If someone said something, they’d be escorted out since,” it’s a pause that brings Lance’s attention back to how Shiro treats him, how they breathe together in this space with no qualms, how they live together with seemingly no dark secret lingering at the threshold, as if this is all ordinary, natural, “and I’m sure no one will think differently with how beautiful you’ll be.”

 

Lance resists rolling his eyes, “there you go, trying to inflate my ego again.” At that, he closer to the bed and to the box, his fingers find the lid with a sense of hesitation, as if he will be opening up Pandora’s box as opposed to opening a gift. There is little reason to doubt anything anymore, though, as he knows there is nothing but good intentions involved. 

 

As he lifts the lid off, there lies in delicate white paper a blue dress that shimmers in the waning daylight, intricate hand sewn details that creates the image of navy streams that flow into the hem seams. Lance’s careful hands find the straps, bringing the dress up for his wide-eyed gaze to see. It’s even more gorgeous like this, each bead catching light, each running stitch washing stars downstream. 

 

The label reads _Versace._

 

Breath leaves him there, alone, in the thoughts that sputter and then race. They crash because this isn’t just La Perla or something a little more… affordable and understandable considering their bedroom schemes. No, this is a dress, a designer version of the one that hangs in the guest room closet, the same one that Shiro eased off his shoulders their first night of knowing one another. 

 

“Dang, Shiro…” is all he can manage because anything else pales, everything else is incomplete and lacks awe. His thumbs trace over the closest beginnings of the webs of rivers while he still attempts to get the gears in motion, for something to form other than two words. 

 

The void is filled by Shiro, his hero, his rescuer when there is nothing else helpful. “You’re going to be beautiful sight, the most beautiful one there, if you’re okay with being invited…?” 

 

Lance slowly pulls the rest of the dress from the box, a red drawstring bag hidden beneath that has the signature of _Christian Louboutin_ emblazoned on the cloth. Lance’s mouth is dry, stuffed with salt cotton; how much is he getting out of this box? 

 

“You bought shoes, too!?” accuses Lance, turning abruptly to give Shiro a look of incredulity. This is borderline ridiculous now because Louboutin might fly over his head in some sense, but _Versace?_ This dress is overwhelming enough as it is. 

 

“Allura mentioned that they matched…” sheepishly, Shiro rubs the back of his neck after he admits his cohort involved, “and I couldn’t figure out what else worked?” 

 

Lance wonders what the hell goes through Shiro’s mind when he sits down to make purchases, when he uses Google to search for ‘outfits for the guy that lives with me that I contracted out.’ It seems like such a hassle, though, because why spend all this money on something you intend to take off? Why spend all this money on anything? The finances it took to purchase this dress alone just baffles Lance, but maybe there’s a simple tax write off for this, some benefit for the company or some other crazy reasoning for buying a dress worth thousands. 

 

“But,” Shiro sighs, his hands raising so that they press along the backs of Lance’s shoulders to bring him closer, a breath of space between them then, “I don’t want you to feel forced to go… the dress and shoes are yours regardless of the decision.” Lance knows, though, deep down, that it isn’t that simple, that Shiro will accept the answer whether Lance says yes or no, but it’s a matter of Shiro being without someone, being without someone as lovely and as kind as him on his arm, charming the employees with wit and beauty. 

 

Lance is not witty and has to suffer with the stigma that overcast his whole perspective that he’s paid to do what Shiro would prefer. Then, though, jealousy is a spite thing that hisses and rakes her claws along his heart, plucking at each string deftly; what if Shiro finds someone else? 

 

Glancing down at the dress, he bites his lip, contemplating; on one hand, he is the public escort again, the one he worked years towards becoming, honing his ‘craft’ from easy quickies in back alleys to elegant excursions, yet on the other, he is the one on Shiro’s arm, barking at any lady or any gentleman that dares think they can make themselves at home in the other’s life. 

 

Though, really, was the decision so hard? Would he really subject himself to staying alone in the penthouse, watching reruns of _The Christmas Story_ and _Charlie Brown?_ Lance is at the edge of disgust with himself, that he wouldn’t shoot for the stars, wouldn’t play pretty guard dog for Shiro. 

 

“I’ll go then,” Lance says, lowering the dress so that their eyes can meet because if Lance is going to go through with this, it won’t be without a bit of tug of war on the reins of control, “but on one condition.” 

 

Even at the ‘but,’ Shiro’s gray eyes lighten at his answer, as though it’s the first glimpse of sunshine after days of rain and clouds. Deterring Shiro just isn’t an option, he guesses. “Anything, Lance, anything…” he mutters, yet seems so happy, elated even, that Lance just simply said _yes._

 

“I get to ask you one question at the end of the night, and you have to answer honestly— I’ll call your butt out if you lie, Mr. Suave.” 

 

There is not even a second of reluctance before the condition is sealed with a nod and a kiss, Shiro eager to get Lance into his outfit for the night as he takes his suit jacket and exits the bedroom, flashing a wink and a smirk over his shoulder as he shuts the door. 

 

Groaning softly, Lance smacks his own forehead for coming up with some stupid plot he thought would deter Shiro, would even put the man on the defensive— with the way he lit up like a child unwrapping a cute puppy for Christmas, nothing might have done the trick. 

 

No use in wallowing in his folly, so Lance walks into the bathroom and pulls out the bag of makeup because damn him and damn the world, he will be as flawless as possible, even if he’s really just a young man in a dress and convincible makeup.

 

At least this time, he is more prepared, ready to be dressed for the occasion and mingle with the elites, and every careful precision of his eyeliner, the slight overdrawing of his lips before slipping on the Versace dress is all taken in hand to further his ability to defend against them. If the dress isn’t enough to dazzle, the layers of highlight to make his skin _glow_ will handle it, he’s sure. 

 

It’s also worth every moment of primping, of adding fake lashes and the lightest application of gloss, to walk out of the bedroom to find Shiro waiting for him on the couch, to watch his jaw and his tablet drop to the floor at the shimmering sight. 

 

“Ready, león?”

 

-

 

The flabbergasted expression on Keith’s face is what wins the night for Lance, what literally makes the whole list of possible issues worth the whole affair of making blue ómbre on his lids with a wing meant to cut any bitch thinking she (or he) would steal Shiro away from him tonight. 

 

“Well, damn,” Keith muttered once he composed himself, coughing into his hand, “RuPaul might be calling you for an audition.” 

 

Lance merely rolls eyes eyes, wrapping his arm around Shiro’s once his new coat— how much damn money did the bastard _spend?!_ — has been taken by the attendant in the foyer of the hotel hosting the event. “Didn’t know you had enough class to know who RuPaul even is, mullet,” he mutters because their arguments, while sometimes gravitating to yelling at times, are really just childish banters back and forth and nothing too serious. 

 

With a rub of his chin, Keith snorts though, “nah, not really, but you’d probably win the competition, hands down.” 

 

“Aw, thanks, I tried hard,” Lance grumbles while Shiro chuckles and turns to him to kiss his hair. “I think he’s more than lovely, personally,” Shiro tells them both, taking a tablet from one of the hotel attendees to scroll down the list of guests that have already checked in along with the schedule of events. 

 

With a laugh, Keith simply shakes his head, “man, Shiro, have you got it _bad_ or what?” There’s a clatter that keeps Lance from thinking too hard about the question since when does Shiro have something bad and what is that something?

 

“Shit, hold on…” Keith grunts, tell-all wrinkle of frustration creasing his brows as he stomps over to where the hotel servers are surrounding the source of the sudden crash of glass and porcelain. 

 

After watching Keith go off, gray eyes glance down to Lance, freeing his arm to slip around the lithe waist to press them closer. “You really are a sight tonight though, kitten.” Lance can only muster a chortle, feeling lips along his hair line since the heels on his shoes have him nearly at Shiro’s height. 

 

“Well… what can I say? I dress up nicely,” is a confident thing to say, but Lance doesn’t feel half of the emotion he strives to convey, and unfortunately, Shiro has been around long enough to know when those moments, too often, are. 

 

“I mean it, Lance… you’re beautiful no matter what you wear.” 

 

Lance bites back his reply, the makeshift spite held back because he doesn’t understand this all still, and while he isn’t complaining about the conditions, intentions are different than meanings. He wants to chase reasoning, for the first time, because explanations are the only means to reach the conclusion of _why_. 

 

“Helps to have a hefty price tag though, huh?” he jokes to Shiro in attempt to finesse the man into a bit of guilt for spending so much of his money on his paid escort, his paid to-be lover in bed and in life. Again, it does not work since the other man cannot be budged on the subject, cannot seem to grasp why Lance is always in a small state of being overwhelmed. “Every penny was well spent in my opinion,” is all Shiro allows, kissing his hair again before guiding them throughout the crowd while employees and their families come in along with the few guests of the evening. 

 

Honestly, it’s a bit of a sleep affair, but everyone is in good spirits, sipping champagne and partaking of the buffet line with Christmas sweets and the usual appetizers. Lance wondered if he should have put on some leftovers to warm while they were out, but then the tables are set with their pristine white cloths and delicate silverware, so he presumes there’s even dinner for this gala. 

 

An hour sluggishly ticks by, Lance giving smiles and shaking hands, though the back of his mind has conjured awful contradictions concerning where he is, what he’s wearing; what do these people assume of their employer that he brings a dressed-up whore as his guest to the Christmas dinner?

 

If there is nary a negative disposition, none of the families show it, engineers, administration, and manufacturers thanking their CEO before being introduced to Lance, shaking their hands, showing gratitude for even having a little party for the whole company and their loved ones since most establishments hardly recognize the holidays these days.  

 

After a few light sips of spiced cider, Lance meets Pidge, or formally known as Katie Holt yet she refuses to acknowledge the name since it’s ‘too damn formal for them.’ She’s all of eighteen, having started working for the company after she completed her degree at the tender age of fifteen. She strikes up a conversation, though her personality inclines him to believe that she would mesh well with Keith, all defense and snark and worry over her boss. She makes this well known while one hand fusses with her hair, up in a haphazard bun, her other hand shifting her glasses up her nose. Lance can’t help but think fondly of how he used to help his little sisters with their hair, learning how to twist the strands into delicate braids and add the perfect accent of bows. 

 

She’s been interesting enough, discussing her role as the mastermind of many projects and experiments along with her brother who is gone with his partner across the world on vacation, but as usual, most everyone talks about Shiro while he goes around to try and see as many people as he can, being nothing but a gracious host. 

 

“He’s a good guy, Shiro, just… sometimes I wonder if he’s too good,” she mentions in passing to Lance, but Lance only nods, noting the chandeliers glowing with amber light, tinsel and mistletoe draped down over the metal curves and Swarovski crystals. In the corner, there are presents wrapped in golds and reds for other children at shelters and foster homes, all wrapped beautifully and nestled under a large tree. These presents are all donations, both by Shiro himself and his workers. 

 

It amazes him that this man desires to have someone as low as Lance to be a part of his life, how good he is, how much he tries to help while still managing it all. 

 

But, at Pidge’s words, Lance thinks upon the man leaned over the sink as he remembers the life he once had, the dreams of a good man loving him, the dreams of drifting in between stars and planets to find paradises unfold beyond their little blue planet only to return home to the ones who love him. Shiro did not want this life, he did not want luxuries and financial wealth; he wanted freedom from the confines of the world, wanted so much more than any of this offered. 

 

He also thinks upon the man that ties his wrists with silk ties, that wraps his thighs in lace only to let teeth drag at the fabric. There is a man that kisses each eyelid before the darkness of a blindfold hinders his sight, leaves his senses anxious. It’s a cacophony, how many of these sides he has met and dealt with, yet all the same, they still hold the same core, the same essence of good that just makes the ache more prominent, that takes Lance’s heart and keeps it in its little treasure box.

 

“Maybe…” is the only word that seems to fit her worries, though slight they are in these times. 

 

Pidge hums into her glass of apple cider, specifically poured by Shiro himself as he gave her a stern look and noted pointedly, “no alcohol for you.” She looks to assess him, analyze, as if she hasn’t really done so this whole time of their idle chatter that has drifted off into observations of the host. “Keith said you two met a few months ago…” but at her evident scrutiny, she gives a small smirk, like that of her comrade in arms apparently, “I think you’ve done Big Trouble some good.” 

 

Who? “Big Trouble?”

 

“It’s what I call Shiro,” she laughs, sipping more at her cider to pass the moment, “and he so cutely calls me Little Trouble. He's an ass sometimes, I guess; so much for that ‘too good’ idea, huh?”

 

Smiling, Lance nods, his second glass of cider untouched, having stayed in his hand more as he squeezes her shoulder, her demeanor so much like his mother’s, traits she has passed down to her daughters. She is still young, thriving with her intelligence, a prodigy that will climb higher than anyone ever could foresee. 

 

“Too good still applies,” is all he says, hearing the delight in her chuckles, hoping nothing but good for his sisters, praying that they're just as wonderful as this little trouble. Sadly, it only makes homesickness thrum, only makes him think upon a life left behind, makes him wonder if he had clung to Hunk a little tighter, if he had just stayed home.

 

“You’re thinking too hard,” Pidge interrupts, poking his side with her bony elbow, making her bun wobble in threat to fall apart, “thinking gets you nowhere sometimes. You’re the type of, er, person that seems like that. My dad always said ‘just act if you can’t think.’ Works better for some people.”

 

Oh, right, Commander Holt, Shiro had mentioned that, hadn’t he? “Shiro mentioned your father… said he was a brilliant man.” 

 

“Well, he _is_ one of the smartest men in his field right now,” she dictates, her bias as obvious as her lack of fashion sense, but that hardly matters; she’s just fine the way she is, Lance thinks, “and one of the founders of the company, after all. Shame he couldn’t fly out.”

 

Suddenly, something clicks and he realizes the story behind the H in H & S Pharmaceuticals— “the H is for Holt,” and it’s the most obvious fact he’s stumbled upon all night. 

 

Her laughter rings with no malice, rather, the sound is catered with blitheness. “I like you; you’re a good match for him. Funny, but I better not see you flirting with anyone else; sometimes, reputation precedes you.”

 

It’s then that the congeniality between them chills at the understanding she’s given him, and Lance is a bit more concerned about what all has been discovered about him and his past activities. Pidge almost seems to pity him, frowning when she looks over and sees the droop of his shoulders. 

 

“But, that’s okay; he’s happy,” she soothes, gently squeezing his wrist in a sense of sympathy for her unintended attack, “and that’s what matters.” 

 

-

 

Happy. Shiro is happy. He’s _happy_?

 

Lance sits at the main table, lost in thought, quiet. When Shiro had walked over after Allura had been a sweet thing to happen upon Lance and Pidge and strike up a friendlier atmosphere, Lance was at a loss of words which, honestly, shocked him. Shiro seemed to create that silence from his own vocal chords, and it’s a bit unnerving that he has such control, whether present or simply mentioned in casual talk.  

 

By that time, the rest of the crowd worked their ways to their seats, ready to feast on actual food, catered by the hotel’s kitchen and head chefs. Pidge had dismissed herself to head to her own table where Nyma was, Lance waving stiffly with a bit of a smile when the tall blonde waved and winked, her wolf whistle loud and clear. 

 

“I hope I don’t stutter,” Shiro admits to him while wrapping an arm around his waist, guiding them to the table at the front of the ballroom, right in front of the podium all adorned with Christmas, too. “I haven’t really practiced.” 

 

Lance can’t handle any doubt from Shiro right now, can’t handle him with any other emotion other than being damned happy, so he slaps on the best smile he can imagine, making sure he turns to fix at the kerchief in the chest pocket. “You’re gonna be awesome,” but his fingers tremble at the seams of the gray silk, making it less than apparently truthful. He doesn’t mean it this way, but _happy_ runs loose, grabbing each synapse and holding them hostage.

 

As always, Shiro is the grounding foundation, is the steer in a storm-ridden sea, taking his fingers to kiss them. It’s just them, no one else again, just the two of them in their own space, the moving figures shooting stars and satellites, a private affair amongst opposing masses. 

 

“You’re here,” is all Shiro told him, dropping more kisses on his knuckles before ushering Lance to his seat because those heels are pretty, but deadly on his feet, leaning down to kiss a cheek dusted with gold highlight before heading to the podium. The crowd begins to fall short on conversation, employees and guests alike watching as the man of the moment pulls notecards out of his inner breast pocket. 

 

“Good evening,” Shiro begins, grinning at everyone with the luminosity of a man in love, hands settling on the sides of the burnished metal of the stand to speak well into the microphone, “and Merry Christmas!” 

 

Lance smiles when the every person wishes a Merry Christmas in reverberation, just… delighted to know that they think of the lone presence before them as highly as he hoped. 

 

“Tonight, I wanted to hopefully start a tradition with the company because really, it’s the season to, and when speaking with other entrepreneurs in the area, no one seems to celebrate the season or their hardworking employees,” Shiro nods to the crowd, every bit as honest as he truly is, and for some, it may seem naïve. 

 

Lance knows it’s a good front. 

 

“But, first thing’s first; yes, the company will be closed for the next two weeks with standard pay for employees. This is due to our engineers asking of the research facility to be cleaning out after a particular _someone_ pulled an all nighter and used the lubricant for some of the prosthetic fabricators _—_ Ms. Holt,” Shiro pretends to cough then, chucking at the laughter and teases from workers as Ridge’s face goes red. Her embarrassment is short lived, her hands making gestures of ‘watching you’ to Shiro while she smirks wide and dangerously. 

 

“Yes, sorry, I had to tease on you, Pidge, we all know you’re going to put traps in my office now,” Shiro grins and winks, doing the ‘watching you’ right back, “but we’re bringing in a team that was willing to handle clean up while you all rested and enjoyed the holidays.”

 

There’s a moment of applause, then Shiro raises his hand, eyes catching Lance’s before continuing. He breathes in, then out.

 

“Second, I want to thank everyone who helped buy toys for the donation drive. I’ve been told that there is a list of families that will be given these presents after they’ve been collected by Santa’s volunteers so that the kids will get to enjoy them tomorrow morning; if I work half as hard as Santa, I can assure you, he needs all the help he can get.” 

 

There’s another round of applause and laughter, and Lance joins this time because Santa personally has nothing on Shiro. 

 

Shiro signals them again, swallowing, “and lastly, this has been a wonderful year, and we are blessed to be able to work with what we have and more. I’ve decided that for the amount of the bonus pool this year, we will be matching that amount to a charity as voted by you all as another way to give back. This year, the children’s cancer fund had the most votes, and I am pleased to say that our wonderful Accounting department has already sent the check.” 

 

At that announcement, there is the usual response, but with hollers and whistles of genuine jubilation. Lance would have thought, almost snidely, that these people would have been enraged, jealous even, that the money that could have gone back to them instead went to charity to help others. It’s an idea that stems from his own insensitivity, yes, he will admit, but nothing else in the world lights up the room like Shiro’s pride in his team. 

 

“I’ll keep the rest of this short since we all know when we’re back next year, we’ll be going over numbers and ways to improve our product line to the betterment of those in need of our product. I stand here as a testament to the first days of the company,” Shiro motion to his right arm, Lance noting the wrinkling that occurs along the jacket sleeve, “and I can tell you we have come far, and we will go farther. Enjoy your meal, let’s enjoy each other, and ring in the holidays!” 

 

Shiro, too good for this world, smiles as the audience claps, stands from their chairs as the CEO steps away from the podium while the hotel staff begins to bring in plates of piping hot food, the smells of sage and turkey wafting throughout the ballroom. Lance stands with them because, well, he is the date after all. 

 

“And you were nervous,” Lance hisses with a grin, patting Shiro’s cheek to elicit a sheepish smile right back. 

 

“I told you, you’re here; I can do anything then.” 

 

-

 

With dinner past, the plates are cleared and dessert, coffee, and hot chocolate are brought around while the employees get their bonus checks and the families receive gift cards for attending.

 

In all of the commotion of Lance’s own mental state, he finds himself right by Shiro’s side, smiling cordially while he shakes hands and he talks to the little ones that have come. It’s a struggle not to speak to them, to fuss when they yawn, or tease when they grow shy and hide behind a parent. Lance, personally, has always loved children, having a fondness of nurturing from having to help raise his own younger siblings. 

 

Albeit against his will, though he cannot find it in him to dissuade her, Lance manages to pick up another one to stay by his side, a little girl with dark curls and gorgeous brown eyes. Her skin, darker than his, is a gorgeous contrast. He likes it, likes the way she takes his hand while she holds her plush princess doll in her other hand, an obvious security item, and likes it when she calls him ‘princess.’ 

 

“I’m not a princess, little lady,” Lance coos to her, having leaned down to her level. The smile refuses to fall from her lips though, teeth white with a few missing. “You’re like a princess, though!” she pushes, giggling behind the wobbling, oversized head of the soft doll. 

 

Though he parts his lips, Lance finds the words that sound out not his own, but rather, from Shiro, who has taken up the space behind the other to place a hand on the little girl’s head to pat. 

 

“He _is_ a princess, just a bit humble tonight,” then Shiro kisses at his shoulder to soften his next blow, “which is awfully weird for him.” 

 

“Hey, if I’m a princess, you’re a prince,” Lance counters, but the girl, though loyal, is a bit of a romantic and will probably be so for years to come when she dreams of teenage boys from the sanctuary of her room. 

 

“A king!” she tells them, “he’s a king because he’s the boss!”

 

It’s so endearing how much she believes her own words, how her cute doll, just as cute as she, bounces as she rocks up up in her Mary Janes in her excitement. 

 

“Yeah, I guess he is a king then,” is the end to the conversation, Shiro kissing his cheek while the parents laugh at the innocence of their daughter wholeheartedly, bid the couple a Merry Christmas while she waves goodbye. 

 

Lance hopes he can see her again, maybe at a company picnic at the park or even next Christmas, but it’s a hopeless endeavor since how long does he even have?

 

The line eventually ends, leaves them both tired, Shiro especially. Lance is still concerned at the lack of any derogatory word, any judgment that he was sure they would receive. All he can figure out is that Keith might be the culprit, the cause of all the weird smoothness in the interactions from how he nods to the two of them from afar during the party. 

 

Reluctantly, Lance thinks he’ll call in a few favors and get a few strippers sent to Keith’s house. Poor asshole needs to lighten up, live life a little, or he’ll die from a heart attack by the time he’s thirty. 

 

Slowly, but surely, families begin to leave, retrieving their coats and wishing everyone a happy holidays before heading out into the cold, winter heralding Christmas once more in perfect wonder as snowfall drifts beyond panes of glass and red embellished curtains.

 

Before he even recognizes it, the room is occupied by just them, the hotel staff even having vacated the ballroom with the remaining dishes to wash. 

 

“Uh” Lance starts and wonders if Shiro intends to help clean up by some means, pushing some wayward chairs under the tables to tidy it all up a bit, “guess we’re done?” 

 

Shiro does not move from where he stands, eyes calculating as the grays of them bore into Lance. It’s tepid silence that causes Lance to stand straighter, anticipating something he isn’t sure of. “Actually,” the other mutters under his breath, taking a step closer to reach for Lance’s hand, taking it gently into his own, “not really.” 

 

What’s up this man’s sleeve now, after the new outfit and bringing him as a date to this shindig? “Oh?” Lance asks while raising a brow high before teasingly tilting an end of his lips up, “gonna show me my new light blue ’54 convertible?”

 

“If you start singing ‘Santa Baby'—” Shiro stops himself, chuckling with a shake of his head to end his detour, “I was… instead hoping you’d give me the honor of a dance.” 

 

Lance’s brow perks up again, smirk falling short with the insinuation. “You have any booze tonight?” 

 

With a snort, Shirt counters with a “have you?” and Lance grimaces because that isn’t how he intended it to come out, as if it’s all a repeat of their first encounter with each other with the tinge of alcohol on the man’s tongue, Lance not once thinking about that lack of memory from his aversion to the hard drinks because he was too enflamed. “Sorry; just, y’know, kinda weird you want to since it’s all romantic mushy stuff.” 

 

There’s a soft kiss pressed to his forehead, a hint of a smile against his skin before the taller man inches back. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit into the romantic mushy stuff,” is what he mutters before leading him to the middle of the ballroom, under the grandest chandelier of the room, crystals shining like stars above them. 

 

Unable to keep their eyes away from each other, Shiro blindly cradles the curve of a hip with his hand, other hand holding up the hand in his grasp up high for a formal dance position. It’s quiet, nary a sound before Shiro inhales deep and baritones.

 

“ _Have yourself a Merry little Christmas, let your heart be light.”_

 

Lance has had many things done to him; he has been tied up with leather straps, he has had his hair pulled tight and relentless, and he has been dressed up in clothes he’d rather not think about (never by Shiro, but there are times he worries), but never has he been sung to, let alone danced with so slowly, so intimately. It’s almost a scene from one of the black and white films of the olden days, vintage reels portraying a lovely lady and a dapper gentleman dancing with one another in synchronicity, a shining resemblance of a romance to be only seen on the movie screens. 

 

It feels euphoric, like Lance is going to wake up and his pretty thoughts of Christmas love cracking, shattering into pieces he loathes to pick up. 

 

“ _From now on, our troubles will be out of sight,_ ” Shiro sings, voice warm like honey, deep like cinnamon, spinning Lance slowly before swaying them close again, foreheads touching, “ _have yourself a Merry little Christmas, make the yuletide gay.”_

 

It’s every ounce of will for Lance not to goof this up, make a joke because the weight of it, the whole of it submerses, chokes any quantity or quality of word back because those eyes bear deep, confide in Lance. He cannot permit himself to stop Shiro as he sings through the stanzas, the saliency found in those eyes guiding Lance in like a moth to candlelight. 

 

 _“Through the years, we all will be together if the fates allow,”_ and it isn’t long after this that Lance starts to sing with him, courage swelling in with a surge of adoration. His pitch is higher than that of the croon Shiro possesses, but it’s near perfect, melodious and sensual, _“hang a shining star upon the highest bough.”_

 

Fingers intwine, like ribbons in perfect bows and sweeps, noses brushing timidly as only the snowfall outside witnesses such a sight. Lips nearly touch before long, tantilizing _— “So have yourself a Merr—.”_

 

The motion of being dipped back, of being kissed with such tempered passion yet with such tenderness, hitches the breath inside Lance’s lungs, slows his heart as time should slow, should yield for a moment that’s perfectly displayed in snow globes and vintage reels. 

 

It almost pricks at his eyes, almost makes him cry; he holds it in, at least, for a little while more. 

 

Shiro’s arms hold him, cradle him in the crooks of elbows before he’s eased back up, the world upright again. A universe of Swarvoski glistens lucently among depths of blues that gaze into sky grays, yet time ticks on, as inevitability of it all does. However, despite the shifts of clock hands, Lance is overcome, overtaken because it’s too much, it’s so much, that Shiro would boil almond milk just right for Lance’s hot chocolate, that this knight in an Armani suit would never complain about Lance’s upbeat pop hits blasting, that this man that might have some kinks but is gentle, so very gentle, it’s so damn much and—.

 

“I love you.”

 

Time stops again, and the horror of it all is a slap, sharp and near piercing. 

 

How dare Lance, how dare he think he even has a right, a fathoming notion, that he admit to such a thing, that he has a chance to chase for something he wants, for something that washes him away with currents abound. He has to go, has to leave, leave all this behind, but even as he jerks, pushes against Shiro, even as he refuses to look at the man in his escape, the hold is firm, unrelenting. 

 

“I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry, let me go!” Lance begs, voice thick with cracks of his heart and with desperation to get away, but a hand takes his chin, leans him back for another kiss. 

 

He melts like ice on a summer day, melts so serenely that the tiny sliver of hope that rests in the that secret place in his chest hopes this is true. 

 

“Lance,” is the husky murmur along parted lips, lipstick smears along their mouths, painting Shiro’s a blushing nude. What was once too much a matter of seconds ago is now enough, more than enough, because it’s the whisper of reciprocation that makes the radiance of this more real, “I love you, too.” 

 

It should be silly to think that love at first sight is something that happens, that it should have been lust at first sight and rolled downhill from there, but Lance hears bells, hears chiming silver-clear, pristine and perfect, feels the very being that he needing to know that tomorrow and the day, the year, the century after that, Shiro will be here, right here. 

 

It’s all pretty thoughts, thoughts that flourish under the nurturing hands of two lovers that bring the garden to full bloom. 

 

It’s all in time, as are all gardens worth tending to, when Shiro leans forward to wraps his arms under Lance to carry him bridal style outside the ballroom towards the elevators in the grand lobby as making it back to the penthouse was apparently never in the cards. 

 

_-_

 

The first thing that falls to the floor of the master suite is Shiro’s jacket. 

 

It had maybe been a minute, (though more than likely only thirty seconds) of opportunity to see the room booked for the night before their lips meet, hands searching along jawlines and shoulders. Shiro’s thumbs caressing the slender curves of shoulders before sneaking down to his waist. Lance is sure his make up will be a mess, but Shiro doesn’t seem to care. He only wants to undress them deliberately. 

 

Lance attempts, caught up in moment of breathlessness, to undo the knot of Shiro’s tie. When he’s fruitess in his struggle, he’s rewarded with kisses as the other works the tie loose and pulls it off. Buttons though, buttons are easy; simpler than some fancy knot. It’s only a few moments before the white shirt is shrugged off, dropping down the growing pile of high priced clothes. 

 

Hands touch and cup his jaw, Shiro kissing him deep, tip of a tongue teasing along the seam of glossy lips. Lance parts his lips, lets him in. He wants Shiro to consume every ounce of his attention and his arousal. 

 

The distraction of kisses spark embers with the friction of tongues. Fingertips graze down the length of Lance’s neck to touch along the straps of the Versace dress so that they can press those straps down. Kisses follow, making him gasp when Shiro sucks love bites into his skin, worshiping his shoulders and collarbone like they were meant to be. 

 

The room is spinning, the heat dizzying though the pains in his heels and calves are enough to trouble him. As if sixth sense, or more like Lance whining in pain, Shiro picks him up with a smirk and a purr, “kick them off, kitten.”

 

The deadly stilettos are off in milliseconds. Lance takes the chance to lay in his own kisses while he’s set back on his aching, yet grateful, feet. His lips love along the Adam’s apple, nuzzling closer to Shiro while he nips and teases. 

 

“Damn, you flirt,” Shiro growls, fingers grasping for the zipper of the dress, dragging it down slow and provocative, making Lance gasp and curve his spine back into the chill of the air. He’s not too concerned despite the goosebumps knowing that soon he will be on his back in that warm bed. He's eager to spread his legs, let Shiro between his supple thighs. 

 

Shiro inches back, flushed and panting, watches with hungry eyes as the dress flutters down Lance’s frame, more than happy to let the Versace fall to the floor. The blue thing lays there while he purrs again, wrapping his arms around Lance’s waist to pick up him, cross the rest of the way to the bed. 

 

“Shiro—” he falls short, lips on his own to stop him, and soon he’s there on the plush mattress that conforms to the curve of his back. The click of a belt buckle tells him that they’ll soon bare, see each other as they have several times before, yet it’s _new,_ so novel in the midst of the suite, like it’s their first time on their wedding night. 

 

Lance hears the soft chimes of bells again, but then thinks it’s too soon for such thinking. No, he wants to be preoccupied entirely, wants to burn as bright as the stars that Shiro once reached for, lived for. He wants to know intimacy between lovers, not clients. 

 

“Love you… loved you since I fucking saw you across the damn room,” Shiro curses, fighting with his belt, victorious as the leather slides through the belt loops to be thrown across the room. He works on the pants next. Lance sits up to be where Shiro is knelt above him, pushing the hands away to let fingers, no longer shaking for this, nimbly undoing the clasps and dragging down the zipper with a seductive glance upward. 

 

Damn, Shiro is already hard, firm with arousal, tip wet with a stain evident on the briefs. Lance swallows, eyes following the trail of dark hair down. His mouth waters at the want to have the thickness heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth. Leaning closer, he nips at pecs, smiling when the toned muscles twitch against his teeth. Shuddering, the larger body submits a little, lets him leave a few of his own claims right above Shiro’s heart. 

 

Short-lived, his back finds the bed again with the press of hands along his shoulders. With that, the last of Shiro’s vestments are shed, again discarded off the bed, leaving just the lacy number that hugs Lance’s hips, low and tempting. 

 

It’s all kisses again, hands searching, larger ones reaching down to push his thighs apart so Shiro can crawl in close, rub his cock along the lining of Lance’s through silk and lace. Their hips grind, eliciting mewls and moans alike, fingers through hair while Lance’s hips rub for purchase. If the heat was dizzying before, it’s intoxicating now. The air of the room is sweltering, juxtaposing the chill of the outside. 

 

Lance has to break a kiss abruptly when he feels the pads of thumbs along his dusky nipples before a mouth kisses down to take one in, sucking as a tongue tip teases. Shiro draws out a whimper, a bite of teeth along a swollen bottom lip while he gives each nipple ample attention, leaving them slick so his fingers can smoothly touch along the other he’s not attentive to. 

 

The lace along Lance’s length is a trap, sinuous along the thrum of blood that pools there, causing the motions of his hips to grow more and more frantic for that peak, that glorified wash of release that he craves right then. Shiro, though, is steady, taking his time, loving his mouth over as much of Lance as he can, fingertips kneading along hips, shoulders, arms, then to his thighs. Lance hardly keeps quiet, his mewls begging things that rise in volume with the ticks. It’s torture, pure unadulterated torture to be touched so good, to be loved on like he’s worth everything, worth anything. 

 

He borders along orgasm already, thriving on each sense that is blown out of proportion by foreplay that hasn’t even involved anything below the waist being touched.

 

Shiro grunts his name, soothing the sound along the dip of hips then kissing the skin there. He’s precious, Lance thinks, precious with how he treats the body beneath him, precious in how his hands shift to cup the curvature of his ass, teeth catching the trim of lace beneath his navel to drag the panties down. 

 

If that alone wasn’t erotic enough, it’s definitely made so as Shiro’s hooded eyes keep his for every inch down over his thighs, over knees, then off his legs entirely.

 

“I wanna suck you,” is all Lance can breathe out before he bites his lip once more to keep his sounds down. Shiro has kissed his way back up, having skimmed the scope of long legs to linger at the indention of hips. The request is answered with a grunt, the other pulling away as his eyes rove along body splayed out for him, taking in the sight of a young man coming undone by his ministrations. 

 

The enchantment breaks when Shiro reaches for the box of condoms that sit on the bedside table, cumbered by Lance’s hands catching his arm.

 

“… No condoms,” Lance offers, tone a little too hopeful, “I’m clean, and you’re clean, we know that, and you’d be the first guy that’s not used one with me and… yeah?” 

 

The period of contemplation is hardly interminable. Shiro’s arm retracts from the table before he’s back down to hold Lance close, body heats intermingling as their hips are slow in their joined ruts. Their cocks are flush, Lance’s hands clinging along Shiro’s broad shoulders in any attempt to keep from falling over the edge too soon. 

 

“Beautiful… do you know how beautiful you are?” whispers along the shell of his ear, teeth nipping at the lobe, causing a few nervous system misfires how hard it’s made him. “How gorgeous you are when you’re made love to? Like you’re damn made for me.” 

 

It’s not a fantasy, nothing imagined in the niches of his mind to cope with unrequited affection. They’re making love, nothing less, never again anything less. His nails dig into Shiro’s skin at how it all crashes into him, toppling him deeper into a molten state of being. 

 

It’s a so sensual and blurring, how soon it comes to the eventual position change;of Shiro leaned back against the plethora of pillows as Lance kneels lower, taking as much of that glorious heat into his mouth as he can, the weight delicious as the tip barely presses back as far as it can go. Save him, someone, because he’s delirious. Lance is so lost as he sucks, teases the veins of the shaft with his tongue, puckers his lips around the tip as he eases up while his hips twitch in the air. Knees trembling, he reveres that cock because it’s a gorgeous amount of perfect, the right curve of angle, the right girth and length— it’s just everything Lance wants for in accordance to the sexual nature of their relationship. 

 

As he works along the thickness, fingers pet so deftly through his brunet hair, barely tugging at the locks. Shiro’s hips aren’t nearly as slow, jerking up at times when Lance inches up. The creases along his features prove his control is waning. It’s personally a moment of glory, watching the handsome man come undone as opposed to the more common disposition when he’s the dominant, when he’s the one making Lance lose his minds with sensory deprivation and slaps on the ass. 

 

It feels like they’ve been within the secrecy of this room for hours. It has been from the glance at the clock, so it’s typical that impatience wins out when Lance reaches for the table, fumbling for the lubricant that sits there per request. 

 

“I’m a little let down; no rose petals or candles,” Lance moans out, crawling up and over Shiro as he slicks up his fingers, warming the lubricant between his fingers so he doesn’t cause any sort of shock to the system. Their kisses are near sloppy, more tongue and moist pants now while Lance reaches behind himself, teases along his entrance since he craves Shiro, wants him deep and full inside.

 

“Candles… weren’t allowed, and thanks for the tip on the roses,” Shiro grunts, hot breath puffing out along spit-wet lips while he sits up straighter in line with the pillows, “let me help, kitten, please. Want to see your face, want to hear you need me.” 

 

Lance moans as the first finger sinks in, that momentary tension raking claws along his limbs before he relaxes fully. He’s aware he should not hurry the preparation, almost wishing he had done it during his primping to be at least somewhat loose and eager. But it’s hardly here nor there, and it has to be done if he wants. 

 

As his knees tilt, rock his body back over the finger inside, there's another touch between his legs, searching for him to tease and to prepare. Lance moans in consent after the first of it, letting Shiro push his own finger in alongside the other within the tight heat. 

 

The air is charged, static in his ears with the throbbing of his heartbeat, quick and corpulent, while they move in unison to ready themselves for this, foreheads touching with eyes locked as the feel the almost threat of evanescence build surer and surer. 

 

If this is how Lance dies, then he’d be happy. Happy like Shiro is with the grin along those slight wrinkles of his eyes. Those eyes that ravish and adore. 

 

“I’m good,” he whispers because he can’t handle anymore, doesn’t care of the stretch, doesn’t mind the penetration at the time. He just _needs_ , the only thing running in constant intervals as his soul screams with the flames. 

 

Steadying, Lance feels first touch of the tip after they both retreated, both fervent in their endeavor to use their slick hands to prepare Shiro’s cock to sink into velvet like heat. It doesn’t take long, not at all, before Lance shifts, using the bit of weight he has to take all of the length so he can bask in being _complete,_ being one flesh with the man he loves. 

 

It’s nothing harsh, nothing rough, just gentle, just slow and rapturous, sweet mantras wrested with how dark hips rise and fall while hands touch and cling. Lance’s arms wrap around Shiro’s neck, the taller of them sitting up tall to cradle Lance in his lap, their movements in sync, sensual symmetry. It’s all deeply freeing, and the heavenly sensation eats away at them, at the distance that could be between them, corrodes until skin is an endless plane in their embrace.  

 

When Lance’s hips rock down to take in more, Shiro gives with a thrust up into him; they need each other, they need this. 

 

They never look away, eyes entranced while they make love, nothing short of passionate, nothing less than beautiful. It’s rough breaths, stilted moans and caressing touches. Nothing is important anymore within this moment, just this, just _this._

 

When they come together, their tempo faltering as they reach their highs, Lance sighs out Shiro’s name on along the slackened jawline, the finality descending on them, tumbling off the pinnacle of their desire in intensified deterioration of self. 

 

Time is a constructed idea, no longer meaningful as they bask in the afterglow. Shiro’s lips move along what skin he can reach without much effort, so exhausted from it all that he can only rest now, hold his lover close, let their cooling bodies lay over the rumpled sheets and quilts of the bed. 

 

Lance watches him, blue irises adoring and completely transfixed as if the whole universe is there, as if there is no need to leave this bed because there is naught a thing outside of it, a nothingness that is resounding in the wake of their coupling.

 

That is how they sleep, and how they awake, with sunlight painting their skins resplendent with its rays though even that seems pale in the blossoming fullness of pretty thoughts that were once just that; thoughts. 

 

Shiro orders breakfast, a feast fit for two with eggs benedict and toast with honey butter after they rouse from the nest they’ve cuddled in, warmed and sated in every sense. They bathe each other while they wait for room service; quiet, yet comfortably so, holding each other without words, speaking with touch alone. 

 

“Merry Christmas, kitten,” is what Shiro kisses along his shoulder after breakfast, his larger frame spooning Lance’s against the firm musculature of his torso. 

 

Lance smiles, turns back to relish in a kiss that is only ever his now, contract cold and dead, expectations gone with the miracle that only Shiro could ever weave so intricately. 

 

“Merry Christmas, Shiro.”

 

-

 

It’s later on in the day once they have checked out and made it home to put on more accurate winter attire that Lance finds himself in the passenger seat of the Aston Martin. He's peering out the window to watch the lazy city pass by, snow laden and bright with Christmas delight. 

 

For once, the city is not a bustling metropolis, but sleepy and distracted with glad tidings within apartments and homes, businesses closed at least for this one day of the year to allow their workers a rest. It’s almost childlike in its wonderment, how the zephyrs play with the snowflakes, the dust of snow drifting and twirling across sidewalks and plowed roads.

 

“Where are we going? Got some secret cabin we’re going to hide out in for the next two weeks while we go at it like snow bunnies?” Lance asks, Shiro waiting until he’s at a red light to glance over at him a smile. 

 

“It’s something better, I hope.” 

 

They drive in the comfort of each other, Lance's hand held in Shiro’s own while he carefully drives out into the suburbs and then out a bit farther, to the ridges of the urban landscape where those less fortunate live. 

 

It’s beginning to look too familiar; the quiet streets with houses, while not falling in, in obvious need of basic repair. The cars are not shiny and new with upkeep and price, older models rusting in driveways and on curbsides. 

 

It’s when Shiro parks the car just a few blocks down the street from Lance’s childhood home that he finally gives way to his thoughts. 

 

“I thought a lot about what to get you, but…” it’s a long suffering sigh, as if Shiro knows he’s pried too much, found the life that Lance ran away from not because he was miserable but because he wanted to make his own way, wanted to give his mother even the tiniest of alleviations. 

 

Lance’s mother is only a few yards away in that house. A three bedroom, one-story house that never was much, but it was _happy_. Christmas might have been bare at times, only a present a piece, but family was always most important, always the grandest of gifts to have during the holidays that it never seemed to steal away from the joys they had. His siblings galore were kindest to each other for the sake of their parents, the ones who scrounged their last penny for a fine roasted pig and a few sides to feed them all while an angel watched from her perch atop the skinny tree. 

 

 

It was not luxury to others, but it was theirs until the day Lance’s father died. 

“How did you find out…?” Lance manages to ask around the lump in his throat, around the nervous sickness that is chomping at the bit to scream out. He knows he should be angry, terrified even, that Shiro looked into his life before they met (though the years of paid sexual favors wouldn’t be much to gather intel from). 

 

Instead he is astounded that he has been brought back home on Christmas; on what was once his most favorite time of the year, after having spent them alone because he could not handle going home. His mother would never banish him, no, she would never disown him, but it would be her disappointment if she ever found out if she hadn’t already. That would kill Lance the most. 

 

“I didn’t… Keith did.” 

 

Well, now he’s a bit ticked, a rising blood pressure that begins to pound in his forehead. “ _Keith_ did?” 

 

The accusation injures Shiro as he hunches in a little in the driver seat, and it abates the storming rage that threatens to reveal itself. As always there is good behind Shiro, and in the future he hopes to discover the purpose of it all. 

 

Another dragging of a sigh, and the explanation hurts, but is reasonable. 

 

“Keith… had suspicions. He worries about me too much. We’ve known each other since the rehab days,” Lance blinks at that because he had no clue they both met when Shiro was fresh out of the accident that tore away at him, physically and mentally. “I’m like his only family, I guess.

 

“But… he researched you, got mad because he thought I was the stupidest bastard in the world.” Shiro laughs softly, as if only to himself. “Maybe I am, but it didn’t really matter to me. Even if you took every cent I have, it’d have been worth it to believe that maybe I could have someone I was beginning to fall in love with close to me.” 

 

Quiet, Lance returns his hand to Shiro’s, interlacing their fingers again to encourage him to continue. 

 

“Then, he found your family, traced your bank account records, and even,” Shiro coughs, clearing his throat, “contacted a few clients. I’m sorry, and he should apologize to you; that’s your life, and your business.” It means a lot to hear that when Lance had always been downtrodden by the actions he had taken to be independent, especially in the humble perspective Shiro had of him. It means more when Shiro kisses his knuckles and keeps on. “But, he couldn’t figure out anything bad about your family, other than… your father passing.” 

 

“I’m gonna smack that greasy mullet of his shoulders,” Lance threatens with bitter spite because that _is_ personal, but Shiro soothes him, relieves that bubbling anger with another kiss.

 

“Your life is yours to do with as you want, Lance, and I want to give you this if you want it. I want to see you with your family, whether I’m there or not.”

 

Then it clicks, then it all makes sense. Shiro brought him there, only him, unless the man was invited by Lance himself. What would Shiro even do all day if Lance doesn’t? Sit in his custom Vanquish, run Excel sheets and do business from his phone while Lance braves his family and prays that they welcome him with open arms?

 

That would be cruel, crueler than Lance would ever manage to be, and it would mean less to him if Shiro was not by his side, being greeted and introduced to the family. 

 

Shiro is no longer a client, after all. He’s Lance’s significant other, and Lance wants to show him off to the world. 

 

“C’mon!” Lance shouts, unbuckling his seat belt in his haste, “turn off the darn car and c’mon!”

 

Shiro is shocked, stunned by confusion, but his smile is big and bright, youthful with the excitement that is to come from being so domestic that they’re meeting _family_. 

 

The car engine rumbles quiet, Shiro jerking the key out before they’re outside,; laughing at each other in the haste to lock the car, grasping their hands together as they proceed down the sidewalk, snowy footsteps leading down the street towards the Martinez abode.

 

His mother sees them through the window. If Lance could see her face as Shiro can, he will tell him later that night that  he would see her jaw drop, see a work-weathered hand lift to her lips at the sight of one of her babies making his ways up the stairs, the same stairs he’s taken up to the door so many times ages ago. 

 

She barely makes it outside with her children all yelling for her, not a jacket in hand or shoes on her feet. But there’s Lance, there’s her son, her missing piece on this day, with a handsome man at his side, and she will not wait any longer to have her little one back in her arms. 

 

It’s one of the most emotional days, uplifting in its resolution, of Lance’s life. 

 

“I’m home, mama,” he softly speaks in her hair as she holds him, sobs against his chest despite the bitter cold, and Shiro, thank God for him, thank God for the perfection that he is when he slips his coat off to wrap it around his poor mother’s sturdy shoulders. 

 

Shiro even ushers them inside after the woman kisses all over Lance’s face and hair, telling him over and over in her native tongue how much she has missed him and worried over him, prayed every night he would come _home._

 

 _“_ You’re finally _home,_ mijo…” she whispers once she has inched back to take his face in her hands, snow speckling her graying hair, blending into the curls of near-white. She looks like the angel on the tree from Christmases past.

 

Now, he _is_ home, surrounded by his family, his siblings old and young ecstatic and relieved. Shiro has let him have this, has made this all the more better with his kind presence, never once pressuring or dividing his attention. Shiro shakes hands with elder brothers and now brother-in-laws, mutters to them that he’s Lance’s partner. 

 

He’s handed a glass with spiked eggnog by a sneaky older brother, and Lance knows with surety that his lover is now a part of the fold. 

 

Later that evening, with the radio singing from the kitchen where Lance’s sisters with a few husbands clean up, his mother takes his hand, signaling for Shiro with his second glass of sidra to follow with a ‘come hither’ and takes them both to a fresh pine tree that is covered in handmade ornaments and multicolored lights. 

 

“Do you see this tree?” she asks Shiro, squeezing her son’s hand tightly in the happenstance he disappears from her life all over again, “my son here bought this beautiful tree for me.” 

 

Shiro smiles, as he has all day, his dimples deep. All day, Lance has had the joy of listening to Shiro so warmly converse with the other pieces of Lance’s heart, of watching him play with the little ones and their few toys. Lance knows there will probably be some packages sent later on this week straight from Toys R Us, sent in loving care from Shiro. 

 

“Did he now?” Shiro winks at Lance over the head of the short woman, making a bit of a flush warm along Lance’s cheeks as Shiro plays along. 

 

“I was so worried when I had sent the last of the month’s budget to brother in Havana, so worried. I told myself that this year, I will have a pine tree. I have always loved the smell, but this year I would have to put up my old tree that I have hated since my husband died,” her voice is worn with age, and though her hands have known labor for decades, there is the beginnings of pliant age that Lance thumbs along and regrets.  

 

“But then, my son, he sends me a check, and it’s more than enough for this tree, and I thought, my son is so _good_ that I would not have a tree if it meant he’d come back to me.” 

 

The tears are starting to prick at his eyes again, Lance sure that he will cry again in front of his mother and Shiro as he has at least seven times earlier. 

 

“And here he is!” she tells them, her smile infectious with the brightness of lights and relief. “You brought him back to me, here to see my tree that he bought for me!” 

 

“I didn’t do such a thing, ma’am,” Shiro murmurs while touching her shoulder, almost as if he is speaking to his own mother, the one that Lance does not know personally yet yearns to see, to hear how she treats her son, her pride and joy. 

 

A breath of time infinitely closes when their eyes meet, gray to blue, snow clouds to ocean deep, sky to water, when Shiro makes the declaration from deep within his heart, one that mirrors what Lance holds himself and—

 

“He came home to us all the same.”


End file.
